BY 

THOMAS 
NELSON 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


GORDON  KEITH 


BOOKS  BY 
THOMAS  NELSON  PAGE 


IN  OLE  VIRGINIA.    Marse  Chan,  and  other  Stories. 
CameoEdition.  With  an  etching  by  W.  L.  Sheppard. 

Illustrated  Edition.  With  24  full-page  illustrations  by 
A.  B.  Frost,  Howard  Pyle,  W.  T.  Smedley,  C.  S. 
Reinhart,  A.  Castaigne,  and  B.  West  Clinedinst. 

RED  ROCK.  A  Chronicle  of  Reconstruction.  Illus 
trated  by  B.  West  Clinedinst. 

THE  OLD  GENTLEMAN  OF  THE  BLACK  STOCK. 
With  8  full-page  colored  illustrations  by  H.  C. 
Christy. 

SANTA  CLAUS'S  PARTNER.  With  8  full-page  col 
ored  illustrations  by  W.  Glackens. 

ON  NEWFOUND  RIVER :  A  STORY. 
PASTIME  STORIES.    Illustrated  by  A.  B.  Frost. 
THE  BURIAL  OF  THE  GUNS. 
ELSKET,  AND  OTHER  STORIES. 

SOCIAL  LIFE   IN  OLD  VIRGINIA  BEFORE  THE 
WAR.    Illustrated. 

THE  OLD  SOUTH.    Essays  Social  and  Political. 

"BEFO'  DE  WAR."  Echoes  of  Negro  Dialect.  By 
A.  C.  Gordon  and  Thomas  Nelson  Page. 

A  CAPTURED  SANTA  GLAUS.  With  4  full-page 
colored  illustrations  by  W.  L.  Jacobs. 

TWO  LITTLE  CONFEDERATES.    Illustrated. 

AMONG  THE  CAMPS,  or  Young  People's  Stories  of 
the  War.  Illustrated. 


She  was  the  first  to  break  the  silence 


GORDON  KEITH 


BY 

THOMAS  NELSON  PAGE 


WITH    ILLUSTRATIONS    BY 
GEORGE    WRIGHT 


CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 
NEW  YORK  1903 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


Copyright,  1903,  by 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 
Published  May,  1903 


TO 

A  GRANDDAUGHTER 
OF  ONE  LOIS  HUNTINGTON 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

i.  GORDON  KEITH'S  PATRIMONY 3 

ii.  GENERAL  KEITH  BECOMES  AN  OVERSEER  .      20 
m.  THE  ENGINEER  AND  THE  SQUIRE     ....    34 

iv.  Two  YOUNG  MEN 50 

v.  THE  EIDGE  COLLEGE 62 

vi.  ALICE  YORKE 74 

vii.  MRS.  YORKE  FINDS  A  GENTLEMAN  ....    90 

VIIL  MR.  KEITH'S  IDEALS 98 

ix.  MR.   KEITH    is    UNPRACTICAL   .    .    .    .    .  104 

x.  MRS.  YORKE  CUTS  A  KNOT 118 

XL  GUMBOLT 133 

xii.  KEITH  DECLINES  AN  OFFER 152 

xiii.  KEITH  IN  NEW  YORK 167 

xiv.  THE  HOLD-UP 187 

xv.  MRS.  YORKE  MAKES  A  MATCH 208 

xvi.  KEITH  VISITS  NEW  YORK,  AND  MRS.  LAN 
CASTER  SEES  A  GHOST 222 

xvii.  KEITH  MEETS  NORMAN 238 

xviii.  MRS.  LANCASTER 250 

XIX.   WlCKERSHAM  AND  PHRONY 270 

vii 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

xx.  MRS.  LANCASTER'S  WIDOWHOOD     ....    293 

xxi.  THE  DIRECTORS'  MEETING 312 

xxii.  MRS.  CREAMER'S  BALL 324 

xxiii.  GENERAL  KEITH  VISITS  STRANGE  LANDS     .  347 

xxiv.  KEITH  TRIES  His  FORTUNES  ABROAD      .     359 

xxv.  THE  DINNER  AT  MRS.  WICKERSHAM'S  .    .     .372 

xxvi.  A  MISUNDERSTANDING 388 

xxvii.  PHRONY  TRIPPER  AND  THE  REV.  MR.  RIM- 

MON 404 

xxvin.  ALICE  LANCASTER  FINDS  PHRONY  ....    419 

xxix.  THE  MARRIAGE  CERTIFICATE 430 

xxx.  "SNUGGLERS'  ROOST" 436 

xxxi.  TERPY'S  LAST  DANCE    AND  WICKERSHAM'S 

FINAL  THROW     .    .    ; 448 

xxxii.  THE  RUN  ON  THE  BANK 471 

xxxin.  RECONCILIATION 490 

xxxiv.  THE  CONSULTATION 506 

xxxv.  THE  MISTRESS  OF  THE  LAWNS 513 

xxxvi.  THE  OLD  IDEAL  529 


Vlll 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

She  was  the  first  to  break  the  silence    .     .     .     Frontispiece 

FACING  PAGE 

"If  you  don't  go  back  to  your  seat  I'll  dash  your  brains 
out,"  said  Keith 68 

"  Then  why  don't  you  answer  me  ?" 140 

Sprang  over  the  edge  of  the  road  into  the  thick  bushes 
below 204 

"Why,  Mr.  Keith  !  "  she  exclaimed 254 

"Sit  down.     I  want  to  talk  to  you  " 356 

"It  is  he !     >Tis  he  ! "  she  cried 422 

"Lois— I  have  come—"  he  began 546 


IX 


GORDON  KEITH 


GORDON  KEITH 

CHAPTER  I 

I 
INTRODUCTORY 

GORDON  KEITH'S  PATRIMONY 

ORDON  KEITH  was  the  son  of  a  gentleman.  And 
\JT  this  fact,  like  the  cat  the  honest  miller  left  to  his 
youngest  son,  was  his  only  patrimony.  As  in  that  case  also, 
it  stood  to  the  possessor  in  the  place  of  a  good  many  other 
things.  It  helped  him  over  many  rough  places.  He  car 
ried  it^with  him  as  a  devoted  Romanist  wears  a  sacred 
scapulary  next  to  the  heart. 

His  father,  General  McDowell  Keith  of  "Elphinstone," 
was  a  gentleman  of  the  old  kind,  a  type  so  old-fashioned 
that  it  is  hardly  accepted  these  days  as  having  existed. 
He  knew  the  Past  and  lived  in  it  j  the  Present  he  did  not 
understand,  and  the  Future  he  did  not  know.  In  his  latter 
days,  when  his  son  was  growing  up,  after  war  had  swept 
like  a  vast  inundation  over  the  land,  burying  almost  every 
thing  it  had  not  borne  away,  General  Keith  still  survived, 
unchanged,  unmoved,  unmarred,  an  antique  memorial  of 
the  life  of  which  he  was  a  relic.  His  one  standard  was 
that  of  a  gentleman. 

This  idea  was  what  the  son  inherited  from  the  father 
along  with  some  other  old-fashioned  things  which  he  did 
not  know  the  value  of  at  first,  but  which  he  came  to 
understand  as  he  grew  older. 

3 


GOKDON  KEITH 

When  in  after  times,  in  the  swift  rush  of  life  in  a  great 
city,  amid  other  scenes  and  new  manners,  Gordon  Keith 
looked  back  to  the  old  life  on  the  Keith  plantation,  it 
appeared  to  him  as  if  he  had  lived  then  in  another  world. 

Elphinstone  was,  indeed,  a  world  to  itself:  a  long,  ram 
bling  house,  set  on  a  hill,  with  white-pillared  verandahs, 
closed  on  the  side  toward  the  evening  sun  by  green  Vene 
tian  blinds,  and  on  the  other  side  looking  away  through 
the  lawn  trees  over  wide  fields,  brown  with  fallow,  or  green 
with  cattle-dotted  pasture-land  and  waving  grain,  to  the 
dark  rim  of  woods  beyond.  To  the  westward  "the  Ridge  " 
made  a  straight,  horizontal  line,  except  on  clear  days,  when 
the  mountains  still  farther  away  showed  a  tenderer  blue 
scalloped  across  the  sky. 

A  stranger  passing  through  the  country  prior  to  the 
war  would  have  heard  much  of  Elphinstone,  the  Keith 
plantation,  but  he  would  have  seen  from  the  main  road 
(which,  except  in  summer,  was  intolerably  bad)  only  long 
stretches  of  rolling  fields  well  tilled,  and  far  beyond  them 
a  grove  on  a  high  hill,  where  the  mansion  rested  in 
proud  seclusion  amid  its  immemorial  oaks  and  elms, 
with  what  appeared  to  be  a  small  hamlet  lying  about  its 
feet.  Had  he  turned  in  at  the  big-gate  and  driven  a 
mile  or  so,  he  would  have  found  that  Elphinstone  was 
really  a  world  to  itself,  almost  as  much  cut  off  from  the 
outer  world  as  the  home  of  the  Keiths  had  been  in  the 
old  country.  A  number  of  little  blacks  would  have 
opened  the  gates  for  him ;  several  boys  would  have  run  to 
take  his  horse,  and  he  would  have  found  a  legion  of  ser 
vants  about  the  house.  He  would  have  found  that  the  ham 
let  was  composed  of  extensive  stables  and  barns,  with  shops 
and  houses,  within  which  mechanics  were  plying  their 
trades  with  the  ring  of  hammers,  the  clack  of  looms, 
and  the  hum  of  spinning-wheels— all  for  the  plantation ; 
whilst  on  a  lower  hill  farther  to  the  rear  were  the  ser 
vants'  quarters  laid  out  in  streets,  filled  with  children. 

Had  the  visitor  asked  for  shelter,  he  would  have  received, 

4 


GORDON  KEITH'S  PATRIMONY 

whatever  his  condition,  a  hospitality  as  gracious  as  if  he 
had  been  the  highest  in  the  land ;  he  would  have  found 
culture  with  philosophy  and  wealth  with  content,  and  he 
would  have  come  away  charmed  with  the  graciousness  of 
his  entertainment.  And  yet,  if  from  any  other  country  or 
region  than  the  South,  he  would  have  departed  with  a 
feeling  of  mystification,  as  though  he  had  been  drifting  in 
a  counter-current  and  had  discovered  a  part  of  the  world 
sheltered  and  to  some  extent  secluded  from  the  general 
movement  and  progress  of  life. 

This  plantation,  then,  was  Gordon's  world.  The  woods 
that  rimmed  it  were  his  horizon,  as  they  had  been  that  of 
the  Keiths  for  generations ;  more  or  less  they  always 
affected  his  horizon.  His  father  appeared  to  the  boy  to 
govern  the  world ;  he  governed  the  most  important  part 
of  it— the  plantation— without  ever  raising  his  voice.  His 
word  had  the  convincing  quality  of  a  law  of  nature.  The 
quiet  tones  of  his  voice  were  irresistible.  The  calm  face, 
lighting  up  at  times  with  the  flash  of  his  gray  eyes,  was 
always  commanding  :  he  looked  so  like  the  big  picture  in 
the  library  of  a  tall,  straight  man,  booted  and  spurred,  and 
partly  in  armor,  with  a  steel  hat  over  his  long  curling  hair, 
and  a  grave  face  that  looked  as  if  the  sun  were  on  it.  It 
was  no  wonder,  thought  the  boy,  that  he  was  given  a  sword 
by  the  State  when  he  came  back  from  the  Mexican  War  j 
no  wonder  that  the  Governor  had  appointed  him  Senator, 
a  position  he  declined  because  of  his  wife's  ill  health. 
Gordon's  wonder  was  that  his  father  was  not  made  Presi 
dent  or  Commander-in- Chief  of  the  army.  It  no  more 
occurred  to  him  that  any  one  could  withstand  his  father 
than  that  the  great  oak-trees  in  front  of  the  house,  which 
it  took  his  outstretched  arms  six  times  to  girdle,  could  fall. 

Yet  it  came  to  pass  that  within  a  few  years  an  invading 
army  marched  through  the  plantation,  camped  on  the 
lawn,  and  cut  down  the  trees ;  and  Gordon  Keith,  whilst 
yet  a  boy,  came  to  see  Elphinstone  in  the  hands  of  strangers, 
and  his  father  and  himself  thrown  out  on  the  world. 

5 


GORDON   KEITH 

His  mother  died  while  Gordon  was  still  a  child.  Until 
then  she  had  not  appeared  remarkable  to  the  boy :  she 
was  like  the  atmosphere,  the  sunshine,  and  the  blue,  arch 
ing  sky,  all-pervading  and  existing  as  a  matter  of  course. 
Yet,  as  her  son  remembered  her  in  after  life,  she  was  the 
centre  of  everything,  never  idle,  never  hurried  j  every  one 
and  everything  revolved  about  her  and  received  her  light 
and  warmth.  She  was  the  refuge  in  every  trouble,  and 
her  smile  was  enchanting.  It  was  only  after  that  last 
time,  when  the  little  boy  stood  by  his  mother's  bedside 
awed  and  weeping  silently  in  the  shadow  of  the  great 
darkness  that  was  settling  upon  them,  that  he  knew  how 
absolutely  she  had  been  the  centre  and  breath  of  his  life. 
His  father  was  kneeling  beside  the  bed,  with  a  face  as 
white  as  his  mother's,  and  a  look  of  such  mingled  agony 
and  resignation  that  Gordon  never  forgot  it.  As,  because 
of  his  father's  teaching,  the  son  in  later  life  tried  to  be  just 
to  every  man,  so,  for  his  mother's  sake,  he  remembered  to 
be  kind  to  every  woman. 

In  the  great  upheaval  that  came  just  before  the  war, 
Major  Keith  stood  for  the  Union,  but  was  defeated.  When 
his  State  seceded,  he  raised  a  regiment  in  the  congressional 
district  which  he  had  represented  for  one  or  two  terms. 
As  his  duties  took  him  from  home  much  of  the  time,  he 
sent  Gordon  to  the  school  of  the  noted  Dr.  Grammer,  a 
man  of  active  mind  and  also  active  arm,  named  by  his  boys, 
from  the  latter  quality,  "Old  Hickory." 

Gordon,  like  some  older  men,  hoped  for  war  with  all  his 
soul.  A  great-grandfather  an  officer  of  the  line  in  the  Eev- 
olution,  a  grandfather  in  the  navy  of  1812,  and  his  father 
a  major  in  the  Mexican  War,  with  a  gold-hilted  sword 
presented  him  by  the  State,  gave  him  a  fair  pedigree,  and 
he  looked  forward  to  being  a  great  general  himself.  He 
would  be  Julius  Csesar  or  Alexander  the  Great  at  least. 
It  was  his  preference  for  a  career,  unless  being  a  moun 
tain  stage-driver  was.  He  had  seen  one  or  two  such  beings 
in  the  mountains  when  he  accompanied  his  father  once  on 

6 


GORDON   KEITH'S   PATRIMONY 

a  canvass  that  he  was  making  for  Congress,  enthroned  like 
Jove,  in  clouds  of  oil-coats  and  leather,  mighty  in  power 
and  speech ;  and  since  then  his  dreams  had  been  blessed 
at  times  with  lumbering  coaches  and  clanking  teams. 

One  day  Gordon  was  sent  for  to  come  home.  When  he 
came  down-stairs  next  morning  his  father  was  standing 
in  the  drawing-room,  dressed  in  full  uniform,  though  it  was 
not  near  as  showy  as  Gordon  had  expected  it  to  be,  or  as 
dozens  of  uniforms  the  boy  had  seen  the  day  before  about 
the  rail  way -stations  on  his  journey  home,  gorgeous  with 
gold  lace.  He  was  conscious,  however,  that  some  change 
had  taken  place,  and  a  resemblance  to  the  man-in-armor 
in  the  picture  over  the  library  mantel  suddenly  struck  the 
boy.  There  was  the  high  look,  the  same  light  in  the  eyes, 
the  same  gravity  about  the  mouth ;  and  when  his  father, 
after  taking  leave  of  the  servants,  rode  away  in  his  gray 
uniform,  on  his  bay  horse  "Chevalier,"  with  his  sword  by 
his  side,  to  join  his  men  at  the  county -seat,  and  let  Gordon 
accompany  him  for  the  first  few  miles,  the  boy  felt  as  though 
he  had  suddenly  been  transported  to  a  world  of  which  he 
had  read,  and  were  riding  behind  a  knight  of  old.  Ah ! 
if  there  were  only  a  few  Roundheads  formed  at  the  big- 
gate,  how  they  would  scatter  them  ! 

About  the  third  year  of  the  war,  Mr.  Keith,  now  a 
brigadier-general,  having  been  so  badly  wounded  that  it 
was  supposed  he  could  never  again  be  fit  for  service  in  the 
field,  was  sent  abroad  by  his  government  to  represent  it  in 
England  in  a  semi-confidential,  semi -diplomatic  position. 
He  had  been  abroad  before— quite  an  unusual  occurrence 
at  that  time. 

General  Keith  could  not  bring  himself  to  leave  his  boy 
behind  him  and  have  the  ocean  between  them,  so  he  took 
Gordon  with  him. 

After  a  perilous  night  in  running  the  blockade,  when 
they  were  fired  on  and  escaped  only  by  sending  up 
rockets  and  passing  as  one  of  the  blockading  squad 
ron,  General  Keith  and  Gordon  transferred  at  Nassau 

7 


GOKDON   KEITH 

to  their  steamer.  The  vessel  touched  at  Halifax,  and 
among  the  passengers  taken  on  there  were  an  American 
lady,  Mrs.  Wickersham  of  New  York,  and  her  son  Ferdy 
Wickersham,  a  handsome,  black-eyed  boy  a  year  or  two 
older  than  Gordon.  As  the  two  lads  were  the  only  pas 
sengers  aboard  of  about  their  age,  they  soon  became  as 
friendly  as  any  other  young  animals  would  have  become, 
and  everything  went  on  balmily  until  a  quarrel  arose  over 
a  game  which  they  were  playing  on  the  lower  deck.  As 
General  Keith  had  told  Gordon  that  he  must  be  very  dis 
creet  while  on  board  and  not  get  into  any  trouble,  the  row 
might  have  ended  in  words  had  not  the  sympathy  of  the 
sailors  been  with  Gordon.  This  angered  the  other  boy  in 
the  dispute,  and  he  called  Gordon  a  liar.  This,  according 
to  Gordon's  code,  was  a  cause  of  war.  He  slapped  Ferdy 
in  the  mouth,  and  the  next  second  they  were  at  it  hammer- 
and-tongs.  So  long  as  they  were  on  their  feet,  Ferdy,  who 
knew  something  of  boxing,  had  much  the  best  of  it  and 
punished  Gordon  severely,  until  the  latter,  diving  into 
him,  seized  him. 

In  wrestling  Ferdy  was  no  match  for  him,  for  Gordon 
had  wrestled  with  every  boy  on  the  plantation,  and  after  a 
short  scuffle  he  lifted  Ferdy  and  flung  him  flat  on  his  back 
on  the  deck,  jarring  the  wind  out  of  him.  Ferdy  refused 
to  make  up  and  went  off  crying  to  his  mother,  who  from 
that  time  filled  the  ship  with  her  abuse  of  Gordon. 

The  victory  of  the  younger  boy  gave  him  great  prestige 
among  the  sailors,  and  Mike  Doherty,  the  bully  of  the  fore 
castle,  gave  him  boxing  lessons  during  all  the  rest  of  the 
voyage,  teaching  him  the  mystery  of  the  "side  swing  "  and 
the  "left-hand  upper-cut,"  which  Mike  said  was  "as  good 
as  a  belaying-pin." 

"With  a  good,  smooth  tongue  for  the  girlls  and  a  good 
upper-cut  for  thim  as  treads  on  your  toes,  you  are  aall 
right,"  said  Mr.  Doherty ;  "you're  rigged  for  ivery  braize. 
But,  boy,  remimber  to  be  quick  with  both,  and  don't  forgit 
who  taaught  you." 

8 


GOKDON   KEITH'S   PATRIMONY 

Thus,  it  was  that,  while  Gordon  Keith  was  still  a  boy 
of  about  twelve  or  thirteen,  instead  of  being  on  the  old 
plantation  rimmed  by  the  great  woods,  where  his  life  had 
hitherto  been  spent,  except  during  the  brief  period  when 
he  had  been  at  Dr.  Grammer's  school,  he  found  himself  one 
summer  in  a  little  watering-place  on  the  shores  of  an  Eng 
lish  lake  as  blue  as  a  china  plate,  set  amid  ranges  of  high 
green  hills,  on  which  nestled  pretty  white  or  brown  villas 
surrounded  by  gardens  and  parks. 

The  water  was  a  new  element  for  Gordon.  The  home 
of  the  Keiths  was  in  the  high  country  back  from  the  great 
watercourses,  and  Gordon  had  never  had  a  pair  of  oars  in 
his  hands,  nor  did  he  know  how  to  swim ;  but  he  meant 
to  learn.  The  sight  of  the  boats  rowed  about  by  boys  of 
his  own  age  filled  him  with  envy.  And  one  of  them,  when 
he  first  caught  sight  of  it,  inspired  him  with  a  stronger  feel 
ing  than  envy.  It  was  painted  white  and  was  gay  with  blue 
and  red  stripes  around  the  gunwale.  In  it  sat  two  boys. 
One,  who  sat  in  the  stern,  was  about  Gordon's  age ;  the 
other,  a  little  larger  than  Gordon,  was  rowing  and  used  the 
oars  like  an  adept.  In  the  bow  was  a  flag,  and  Gordon  was 
staring  at  it,  when  it  came  to  him  with  a  rush  that  it  was 
a  "Yankee  "  flag.  He  was  conscious  for  half  a  moment  that 
he  took  some  pride  in  the  superiority  of  the  oarsman  over 
the  boys  in  the  other  boats.  His  next  thought  was  that 
he  had  a  little  Confederate  flag  in  his  trunk.  He  had 
brought  it  from  home  among  his  other  treasures.  He  would 
show  his  colors  and  not  let  the  Yankee  boys  have  all  of  the 
honors.  So  away  he  put  as  hard  as  his  legs  could  carry 
him.  When  he  got  back  to  the  waterside  he  hired  a  boat 
from  among  those  lying  tied  at  the  stairs,  and  soon  had  his 
little  flag  rigged  up,  when,  taking  his  seat,  he  picked  up  the 
oars  and  pushed  off.  It  was  rather  more  difficult  than  it  had 
looked.  The  oars  would  not  go  together.  However,  after 
a  little  he  was  able  to  move  slowly,  and  was  quite  elated 
at  his  success  when  he  found  himself  out  on  the  lake.  Just 
then  he  heard  a  shout : 

9 


GORDON  KEITH 

"Take  down  that  flag  ! " 

Gordon  wished  to  turn  his  boat  and  look  around,  but 
could  not  do  so.  However,  one  of  the  oars  came  out  of  the 
water,  and  as  the  boat  veered  a  little  he  saw  the  boys 
in  the  white  boat  with  the  Union  flag  bearing  down  on 
him. 

The  oarsman  was  rowing  with  strong,  swift  strokes  even 
while  he  looked  over  his  shoulder,  and  the  boat  was  shoot 
ing  along  as  straight  as  an  arrow,  with  the  clear  water 
curling  about  its  prow.  Gordon  wished  for  a  moment  that 
he  had  not  been  so  daring,  but  the  next  second  his  fighting 
blood  was  up,  as  the  other  boy  called  imperiously  : 

"Strike  that  flag!" 

Gordon  could  see  his  face  now,  for  he  was  almost  on  him. 
It  was  round  and  sunburnt,  and  the  eyes  were  blue  and 
clear  and  flashing  with  excitement.  His  companion,  who 
was  cheering  him  on,  was  Ferdy  Wickersham. 

"Strike  that  flag,  I  say,"  called  the  oarsman. 

"I  won't.     Who  are  you?     Strike  your  own  flag." 

"I  am  Norman  Wentworth.  That's  who  I  am,  and  if  you 
don't  take  that  flag  down  I  will  take  it  down  for  you,  you 
little  nigger-driving  rebel." 

Gordon  Keith  was  not  a  boy  to  neglect  the  amenities  of 
the  occasion. 

"Come  and  try  it  then,  will  you,  you  nigger-stealing 
Yankees ! "  he  called.  "I  will  fight  both  of  you."  And 
he  settled  himself  for  defence. 

"Well,  I  will,"  cried  his  assailant.  "Drop  the  tiller, 
Ferdy,  and  sit  tight.  I  will  fight  fair."  Then  to  'Gordon 
again  :  "I  have  given  you  fair  warning,  and  I  will  have 
that  flag  or  sink  you." 

Gordon's  answer  was  to  drop  one  oar  as  useless,  seize  the 
other,  and  steadying  himself  as  well  as  he  could,  raise  it 
aloft  as  a  weapon. 

"I  will  kill  you  if  you  try  it,"  he  said  between  clinched 
teeth. 

However,  the  boy  rowing  the  other  boat  was  not  to  be 

10 


GORDON    KEITH'S   PATRIMONY 

frightened.  He  gave  a  vigorous  stroke  of  his  oars  that 
sent  his  boat  straight  into  the  side  of  Gordon's  boat. 

The  shock  of  the  two  boats  coming  together  pitched 
Gordon  to  his  knees,  and  came  near  flinging  him  into  the 
water ;  but  he  was  up  again  in  a  second,  and  raising  his 
oar,  dealt  a  vicious  blow  with  it,  not  at  the  boy  in  the 
boat,  but  at  the  flag  in  the  bow  of  the  boat.  The  unsteadi 
ness  of  his  footing,  however,  caused  him  to  miss  his  aim, 
and  he  only  splintered  his  oar  into  fragments. 

"Hit  him  with  the  oar,  Norman,"  called  the  boy  in  the 
stern.  "Knock  him  out  of  the  boat." 

The  other  boy  made  no  answer,  but  with  a  quick  turn 
of  his  wrist  twisted  his  boat  out  of  its  direct  course  and 
sent  it  skimming  off  to  one  side.  Then  dropping  one  oar, 
he  caught  up  the  other  with  both  hands,  and  with  a  rapid, 
dexterous  swing  swept  a  cataract  of  water  in  Gordon's  face, 
drenching  him,  blinding  him,  and  filling  his  eyes,  mouth, 
and  ears  with  the  unexpected  deluge.  Gordon  gasped  and 
sputtered,  and  before  he  could  recover  from  this  unlooked- 
for  flank  movement,  another  turn  of  the  wrist  brought  the 
attacking  boat  sharp  across  his  bow,  and,  with  a  shout  of 
triumph,  Norman  wrenched  the  defiant  flag  out  of  its 
socket. 

Gordon  had  no  time  for  thought.  He  had  time  only  to  act. 
With  a  cry,  half  of  rage,  half  of  defiance,  he  sprang  up  on 
the  point  of  the  bow  of  his  boat,  and  with  outstretched  arms 
launched  himself  at  the  bow  of  the  other,  where  the  captor 
had  flung  the  flag,  to  use  both  oars.  His  boat  slipped  from 
under  his  feet,  and  he  fell  short,  but  caught  the  gunwale  of 
the  other,  and  dragged  himself  up  to  it.  He  held  just  long 
enough  to  clutch  both  flags,  and  the  next  second,  with  a 
faint  cheer,  he  rolled  off  and  sank  with  a  splash  in  the  water. 

Norman  Wentworth  had  risen,  and  with  blazing  eyes, 
his  oar  uplifted,  was  scrambling  toward  the  bow  to  repel  the 
boarder,  when  the  latter  disappeared.  Norman  gazed  at 
the  spot  with  staring  eyes.  The  next  second  he  took  in 
what  was  happening,  and,  with  an  exclamation  of  horror, 

11 


GOKDON   KEITH 

he  suddenly  dived  overboard.  When  he  came  to  the  top, 
he  was  pulling  the  other  boy  up  with  him. 

Though  Norman  was  a  good  swimmer,  there  was  a  mo 
ment  of  extreme  danger ;  for,  half  unconscious,  Gordon 
pulled  him  under  once.  But  fortunately  Norman  kept 
his  head,  and  with  a  supreme  effort  breaking  the  drown 
ing  boy's  hold,  he  drew  him  to  the  top  once  more.  For 
tunately  for  both,  a  man  seeing  the  trouble  had  brought  his 
boat  to  the  spot,  and,  just  as  Norman  rose  to  the  surface 
with  his  burden,  he  reached  out  and,  seizing  him,  dragged 
both  him  and  the  now  unconscious  Gordon  aboard  his  boat. 

It  was  some  days  before  Gordon  was  able  to  sit  up,  and 
meanwhile  he  learned  that  his  assailant  and  rescuer  had 
been  every  day  to  make  inquiry  about  him,  and  his  father, 
Mr.  Wentworth,  had  written  to  Gordon's  father  and  ex 
pressed  his  concern  at  the  accident. 

"It  is  a  strange  fate,"  he  wrote,  "that  should  after  all 
these  years  have  arrayed  us  against  each  other  thus,  and 
have  brought  our  boys  face  to  face  in  a  foreign  land.  I 
hear  that  your  boy  behaved  with  the  courage  which  I 
knew  your  son  would  show." 

General  Keith,  in  turn,  expressed  his  gratitude  for  the 
promptness  and  efficiency  with  which  the  other's  son  had 
apprehended  the  danger  and  met  it. 

"My  son  owes  his  life  to  him,"  he  said.  "As  to  the  flag, 
it  was  the  fortune  of  war,"  and  he  thought  the  incident 
did  credit  to  both  combatants.  He  "only  wished,"  he 
said,  "that  in  every  fight  over  a  flag  there  were  the  same 
ability  to  restore  to  life  those  who  defended  it." 

Gordon,  however,  could  not  participate  in  this  philo 
sophic  view  of  his  father's.  He  had  lost  his  flag ;  he  had 
been  defeated  in  the  battle.  And  he  owed  his  life  to  his 
victorious  enemy. 

He  was  but  a  boy,  and  his  defeat  was  gall  and  wormwood 
to  him.  It  was  but  very  little  sweetened  by  the  knowledge 
that  his  victor  had  come  to  ask  after  him. 

He  was  lying  in  bed  one  afternoon,  lonely  and  homesick 

12 


GORDON   KEITH'S   PATRIMONY 

and  sad.  His  father  was  away,  and  no  one  had  been  in  to 
him  for,  perhaps,  an  hour.  The  shrill  voices  of  children 
and  the  shouts  of  boys  floated  in  at  the  open  window  from 
somewhere  afar  off.  He  was  not  able  to  join  them.  It  de 
pressed  him,  and  he  began  to  pine  for  the  old  plantation— 
a  habit  that  followed  him  through  life  in  the  hours  of 
depression. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  murmur  of  voices  outside  the 
room,  and  after  a  few  moments  the  door  softly  opened,  and 
a  lady  put  her  head  in  and  looked  at  him.  She  was  a 
stranger  and  was  dressed  in  a  travelling-suit.  Gordon 
gazed  at  her  without  moving  or  uttering  a  sound.  She 
came  in  and  closed  the  door  gently  behind  her,  and  then 
walked  softly  over  to  the  side  of  the  bed  and  looked  down  at 
him  with  kind  eyes.  She  was  not  exactly  pretty,  but  to 
Gordon  she  appeared  beautiful,  and  he  knew  that  she  was 
a  friend.  Suddenly  she  dropped  down  on  her  knees  beside 
him  and  put  her  arm  over  him  caressingly. 

"I  am  Norman's  mother,"  she  said,  "and  I  have  come  to 
look  after  you  and  to  take  you  home  with  me  if  they  will 
let  me  have  you."  She  stooped  over  and  kissed  him. 

The  boy  put  up  his  pinched  face  and  kissed  her. 

"I  will  go,"  he  said  in  his  weak  voice. 

She  kissed  him  again,  and  smiled  down  at  him  with  moist 
eyes,  and  talked  to  him  in  tender  tones,  stroking  his  hair 
and  telling  him  of  Norman's  sorrow  for  the  trouble,  of  her 
own  unhappiness,  and  of  her  regret  that  the  doctors  would 
not  let  him  be  moved.  When  she  left,  it  was  with  a 
promise  that  she  would  come  back  again  and  see  him ;  and 
Gordon  knew  that  he  had  a  friend  in  England  of  his  own 
kind,  and  a  truth  somehow  had  slipped  into  his  heart 
which  set  at  odds  many  opinions  which  he  had  thought 
principles.  He  had  never  thought  to  feel  kindly  toward 
a  Yankee. 

When  Gordon  was  able  to  be  out  again,  his  father 
wished  him  to  go  and  thank  his  former  foe  who  had  rescued 
him.  But  it  was  too  hard  an  ordeal  for  the  boy  to  face. 

13 


GOKDON   KEITH 

Ev  en  the  memory  of  Mrs.  Wentworth  could  not  reconcile 
him  to  this. 

"You  don't  know  how  hard  it  is,  father,"  he  said,  with 
that  assurance  with  which  boyhood  always  draws  a  line 
between  itself  and  the  rest  of  the  world.  "Did  you  ever 
have  to  ask  pardon  of  one  who  had  fought  you?  " 

General  Keith's  face  wore  a  singular  expression.  Sud 
denly  he  felt  a  curious  sensation  in  a  spot  in  his  right  side, 
and  he  was  standing  in  a  dewy  glade  in  a  piece  of  wood 
land  on  a  Spring  morning,  looking  at  a  slim,  serious  young 
man  standing  very  straight  and  still  a  few  paces  off,  with 
a  pistol  gripped  in  his  hand,  and,  queerly  enough,  his  name, 
too,  was  Norman  Wentworth.  But  he  was  not  thinking  of 
him.  He  was  thinking  of  a  tall  girl  with  calm  blue  eyes, 
whom  he  had  walked  with  the  day  before,  and  who  had 
sent  him  away  dazed  and  half  maddened.  Then  some  one 
a  little  to  one  side  spoke  a  few  words  and  began  to  count, 
"One,  two—"  There  was  a  simultaneous  report  of  two 
pistols,  two  little  puffs  of  smoke,  and  when  the  smoke 
had  cleared  away,  the  other  man  with  the  pistol  was  sink 
ing  slowly  to  the  ground,  and  he  himself  was  tottering  into 
the  arms  of  the  man  nearest  him. 

He  came  back  to  the  present  with  a  gasp. 

"My  son,"  he  said  gravely,  "I  once  was  called  on  and 
failed.  I  have  regretted  it  all  my  life,  though  happily  the 
consequences  were  not  as  fatal  as  I  had  at  one  time  appre 
hended.  If  every  generation  did  not  improve  on  the  follies 
and  weaknesses  of  those  that  have  gone  before,  there  would 
be  no  advance  in  the  world.  I  want  you  to  be  wiser  and 
stronger  than  I." 

Gordon's  chance  of  revenge  came  sooner  than  he  ex 
pected.  Not  long  after  he  got  out  of  doors  again  he  was 
on  his  way  down  to  the  lake,  where  he  was  learning  to 
swim,  when  a  number  of  boys  whom  he  passed  began  to 
hoot  at  him.  In  their  midst  was  Ferdy  Wickersham,  the 
boy  who  had  crossed  the  ocean  with  him.  He  was  setting 
the  others  on.  The  cry  that  came  to  Gordon  was :  "Nig- 

14 


GORDON   KEITH'S   PATRIMONY 

ger-driver  !  Nigger-driver  ! "  Sometimes  Fortune,  Chance, 
or  whatever  may  be  the  deity  of  fortuitous  occurrence, 
places  our  weapons  right  to  hand.  What  would  David 
have  done  had  there  not  been  a  stony  brook  between  him 
and  Goliath  that  day  ?  Just  as  Gordon  with  burning  face 
turned  to  defy  his  deriders,  a  pile  of  small  stones  lay  at  his 
feet.  It  looked  like  Providence.  He  could  not  row  a 
boat,  but  he  could  fling  a  stone  like  young  David.  In  a 
moment  he  was  sending  stones  up  the  hill  with  such  rapid 
ity  that  the  group  above  him  were  thrown  into  confusion. 

Then  Gordon  fell  into  an  error  of  more  noted  generals. 
Seizing  a  supply  of  missiles,  he  charged  straight  up  the  hill. 
Though  the  group  had  broken  at  the  sudden  assault,  by 
the  time  he  reached  the  hill-top  they  had  rallied,  and 
while  he  was  out  of  ammunition  they  made  a  charge 
on  him.  Wheeling,  he  went  down  the  hill  like  the 
wind,  while  his  pursuers  broke  after  him  with  shouts  of 
triumph.  As  he  reached  the  stone-pile  he  turned  and 
made  a  stand,  which  brought  them  to  a  momentary  stop. 
Just  then  a  shout  arose  below  him.  Gordon  turned  to  see 
rushing  up  the  hill  toward  him  Norman  Wentworth.  He 
was  picking  up  stones  as  he  ran.  Gordon  heard  him  call 
out  something,  but  he  did  not  wait  for  his  words.  Here 
was  his  arch-enemy,  his  conqueror,  and  here,  at  least,  he 
was  his  equal.  Without  wasting  further  time  with  those 
above  him,  Gordon  sprang  toward  his  new  assailant,  and 
steadying  himself,  hurled  his  heaviest  stone.  Fortunately, 
Norman  Wentworth  had  been  reared  in  the  country  and 
knew  how  to  dodge  as  well  as  to  throw  a  stone,  or  his  days 
might  have  ended  then  and  there. 

"Hold  on  !  don't  throw  ! "  he  shouted  ;  "I  am  coming  to 
help  you,"  and,  without  waiting,  he  sent  a  stone  far  over 
Gordon's  head  at  the  party  on  the  height  above.  Gordon, 
who  was  poising  himself  for  another  shot,  paused  amazed 
in  the  midst  of  his  aim,  open-mouthed  and  wide-eyed. 

"Come  on,"  cried  Norman.  "You  and  I  together  can  lick 
them.  I  know  the  way,  and  we  will  get  above  them."  So 

15 


GORDON   KEITH 

saying,  he  dashed  down  a  side  alley,  Gordon  close  at  his 
heels,  and,  by  making  a  turn,  they  came  out  a  few  minutes 
later  on  the  hill  above  their  enemies,  who  were  rejoicing 
in  their  easy  victory,  and,  catching  them  unprepared, 
routed  them  and  scattered  them  in  an  instant. 

Ferdy  Wickersham,  finding  himself  defeated,  promptly 
surrendered  and  offered  to  enlist  on  their  side.  Norman, 
however,  had  no  idea  of  letting  him  off  so  easy. 

"I  am  going  to  take  you  prisoner,  but  not  until  I  have 
given  you  a  good  kicking.  You  know  better  than  to  take 
sides  against  an  American." 

"He  is  a  rebel,'7  said  Ferdy. 

"He  is  an  American,"  said  Norman.  And  he  forthwith 
proceeded  to  make  good  his  word,  and  to  do  it  in  such 
honest  style  that  Ferdy,  after  first  taking  it  as  a  joke,  got 
angry  and  ran  away  howling. 

Gordon  was  doubtful  as  to  the  wisdom  of  this  severity. 

"He  will  tell,"  he  said. 

"Let  him,"  said  Norman,  contemptuously.  "He  knows 
what  he  will  get  if  he  does.  I  was  at  school  with  him  last 
year,  and  I  am  going  to  school  with  him  again.  I  will 
teach  him  to  fight  with  any  one  else  against  an  Amer 
ican  ! " 

This  episode  made  the  two  boys  closer  allies  than  they 
would  have  been  in  a  year  of  peace. 

General  Keith,  finding  his  mission  fruitless,  asked  leave 
to  return  home  immediately,  so  that  Gordon  saw  little 
more  of  his  former  foe  and  new  ally. 

A  few  days  before  their  departure,  Gordon,  passing  along 
a  road,  came  on  a  group  of  three  persons,  two  children  and 
a  French  governess  with  much-frizzled  hair,  very  black 
eyes,  and  a  small  waist.  One  of  the  children  was  a  very 
little  girl,  richly  dressed  in  a  white  frock  with  a  blue  sash 
that  almost  covered  it,  with  big  brown  eyes  and  yellow  ring 
lets  ;  the  other  child  was  a  ragged  girl  several  years  older, 
with  tangled  hair,  gray  eyes,  and  the  ruddy,  chubby  cheeks 
so  often  seen  in  children  of  her  class.  The  governess  was 

16 


GOKDON   KEITH'S   PATKIMONY 

in  a  state  of  great  excitement,  and  was  talking  French  so 
fast  that  it  was  a  wonder  any  tongue  could  utter  the 
words.  The  little  girl  of  the  fine  frock  and  brown  eyes 
was  clutching  to  her  bosom  with  a  defiant  air  a  large  doll 
which  the  governess  was  trying  to  get  from  her,  while  the 
other  child  stood  by,  looking  first  toward  one  of  them  and 
then  toward  the  other,  with  an  expression  divided  between 
timidity  and  eagerness.  A  big  picture  of  a  ballet-dancer 
with  a  gay  frock  and  red  shoes  in  a  flaring  advertisement  on 
a  sign-board  had  something  to  do  with  the  trouble.  Now 
the  girl  drew  nearer  to  the  other  child  and  danced  a  few 
steps,  holding  out  her  hand  ;  now  she  cast  a  look  over  her 
shoulder  down  the  hill,  as  if  to  see  that  her  retreat  were 
not  cut  off. 

"MaiSj  dest  a  moi — it's  my  doll.  I  will  have  it,"  insisted 
the  little  girl,  backing  away  and  holding  it  firmly  ;  at  which 
the  governess  began  again  almost  tearing  her  hair  in  her 
desperation,  though  she  ended  by  giving  it  a  pat  to  see 
that  it  was  all  right. 

The  approach  of  Gordon  drew  her  attention  to  him. 

"Oh,"  she  exclaimed  in  desperation,  "dest  6pouvantable 
—it  ees  terr-e-ble  !  Dese  young  ladie  weel  give  de  doll  to 
dat  meeseerable  creature  ! " 

"She  is  not  a  ( meeseerable  creature ' ! "  insisted  the  little 
girl,  mocking  her,  her  brown  eyes  flashing.  ."She  danced 
for  me,  and  I  will  give  it  to  her— I  like  her." 

"Oh,  del !  What  shall  I  do  !  Madame  weel  abuse  me— 
weel  keel  me  ! " 

"Mamma  will  not  mind  ;  it  is  my  doll.  Aunt  Abby  gave 
it  to  me.  I  can  get  a  plenty  more,  and  I  will  give  it  to 
her,"  insisted  the  little  girl  again.  Then  suddenly,  gain 
ing  more  courage,  she  turned  quickly,  and,  before  the  gover 
ness  could  stop  her,  thrust  the  doll  into  the  other  child's 
arms. 

"Here,  you  shall  have  it." 

The  governess,  with  a  cry  of  rage,  made  a  spring  for  the 
child,  but  too  late :  the  grimy  little  hands  had  clutched 

17 


GOKDON   KEITH 

the  doll,  and  turning  without  a  word  of  thanks,  the  little 
creature  sped  down  the  road  like  a  frightened  animal,  her 
ragged  frock  fluttering  behind  her. 

"Why,  she  did  not  say  i Thank  you7!"  exclaimed  the 
child,  in  a  disappointed  tone,  looking  ruefully  after  the 
retreating  figure. 

The  governess  broke  out  on  her  vehemently  in  French, 
very  comically  mingling  her  upbraidings  of  her  charge, 
her  abuse  of  the  little  girl,  and  her  apprehension  of 
"Madame." 

"Never  mind ;  she  does  not  know  any  better,"  said 
Gordon. 

The  child's  face  brightened  at  this  friendly  encourage 
ment. 

"She  is  a  nasty  little  creature  !  You  shall  not  play  with 
her,"  cried  the  governess,  angrily. 

"She  is  not  nasty !  I  like  her,  and  I  will  play  with 
her,"  declared  the  child,  defiantly. 

"What  is  your  name?"  asked  the  boy,  much  amused  by 
such  sturdiness  in  so  small  a  tot. 

"Lois  Huntington.  What  is  your  name?"  She  looked 
up  at  him  with  her  big  brown  eyes. 

"Gordon  Keith." 

"How  do  you  do,  Gordon  Keith?"  She  held  out  her 
hand. 

"How  do  you  do,  Lois  Huntington?" 

She  shook  hands  with  him  solemnly. 

A  day  or  two  later,  as  Gordon  was  passing  through  one 
of  the  streets  in  the  lower  part  of  the  village,  he  came 
upon  a  hurdy-gurdy  playing  a  livelier  tune  than  most  of 
them  usually  gave.  A  crowd  of  children  had  gathered  in 
the  street.  Among  them  was  a  little  barelegged  girl  who, 
inspired  by  the  music,  was  dancing  and  keeping  perfect 
time  as  she  tripped  back  and  forth,  pirouetted  and  swayed 
on  the  tips  of  her  bare  toes,  flirting  her  little  ragged  frock, 
and  kicking  with  quite  the  air  of  a  ballet-dancer.  She 
divided  the  honors  with  the  dismal  Savoyard,  who  ground 

18 


GORDON   KEITH'S   PATRIMONY 

away  at  his  organ,  and  she  brought  a  flicker  of  admiration 
into  his  bronzed  and  grimy  face,  for  he  played  for  her  the 
same  tune  over  and  over,  encouraging  her  with  nods  and 
bravas.  She  was  enjoying  her  triumph  quite  as  much  as 
any  prima  donna  who  ever  tripped  it  on  a  more  ambitious 
stage. 

Gordon  recognized  in  the  little  dancer  the  tangled -haired 
child  who  had  run  away  with  the  little  girl's  doll  a  few 
days  before. 


19 


CHAPTER  II 
GENERAL  KEITH  BECOMES  AN   OVERSEER 

WHEN  the  war  closed,  though  it  was  not  recognized  at 
first,  the  old  civilization  of  the  South  passed  away. 
Fragments  of  the  structure  that  had  once  risen  so  fair  and 
imposing  still  stood  for  a  time,  even  after  the  foundations 
were  undermined :  a  bastion  here,  a  tower  there ;  but  in 
time  they  followed  the  general  overthrow,  and  crumbled 
gradually  to  their  fall,  leaving  only  ruins  and  decay. 

For  a  time  it  was  hoped  that  the  dilapidation  might  be 
repaired  and  the  old  life  be  lived  again.  General  Keith, 
like  many  others,  though  broken  and  wasted  in  body, 
undertook  to  rebuild  with  borrowed  money,  but  with 
disastrous  results.  The  conditions  were  all  against  him. 

Three  or  four  years'  effort  to  repair  his  fallen  fortunes 
only  plunged  him  deeper  in  debt.  General  Keith,  like 
most  of  his  neighbors  and  friends,  found  himself  facing  the 
fact  that  he  was  hopelessly  insolvent.  As  soon  as  he  saw 
he  could  not  pay  his  debts  he  stopped  spending  and  notified 
his  creditors. 

"I  see  nothing  ahead  of  me,"  he  wrote,  "but  greater  ruin. 
I  am  like  a  horse  in  a  quicksand  :  every  effort  I  make  but 
sinks  me  deeper." 

Some  of  his  neighbors  took  the  benefit  of  the  bankrupt- 
law  which  was  passed  to  give  relief.  General  Keith  was 
urged  to  do  likewise,  but  he  declined. 

"Though  I  cannot  pay  my  debts,"  he  said,  "the  least  I 

20 


GENERAL  KEITH  BECOMES   AN   OVERSEER 

can  do  is  to  acknowledge  that  I  owe  them.  I  am  unwilling 
to  appear,  even  for  a  short  time,  to  be  denying  what  I  know 
to  be  a  fact." 

He  gave  up  everything  that  he  owned,  reserving  nothing 
that  would  bring  in  money. 

When  Elphinstone  was  sold,  it  brought  less  than  the  debts 
on  it.  The  old  plate,  with  the  Keith  coat-of-arms  on  it, 
from  which  generations  of  guests  had  been  served,  and 
which  old  Richard,  the  butler,  had  saved  during  the  war, 
went  for  its  weight  in  silver.  The  library  had  been  pil 
laged  until  little  of  it  remained.  The  old  Keith  pictures, 
some  of  them  by  the  best  artists,  which  had  been  boxed 
and  stored  elsewhere  until  after  the  war,  now  went  to  the 
purchaser  of  the  place  for  less  than  the  price  of  their  frames. 
Among  them  was  the  portrait  of  the  man  in  the  steel  coat 
and  hat,  who  had  the  General's  face. 

What  General  Keith  felt  during  this  transition  no  one, 
perhaps,  ever  knew ;  certainly  his  son  did  not  know  it,  and 
did  not  dream  of  it  until  later  in  life. 

It  was,  however,  not  only  in  the  South  that  fortunes 
were  lost  by  the  war.  As  vast  as  was  the  increase  of  riches 
at  the  North  among  those  who  stayed  at  home,  it  did  not 
extend  to  those  who  took  the  field.  Among  these  was  a 
young  officer  named  Huntiugton,  from  Brookford,  a  little 
town  on  the  sunny  slope  that  stretches  eastwardly  from  the 
Alleghanies  to  the  Delaware.  Captain  Huntington,  having 
entered  the  army  on  the  outbreak  of  the  war,  like  Colonel 
Keith  rose  to  the  rank  of  general,  and,  like  General  Keith, 
received  a  wound  that  incapacitated  him  for  service.  His 
wife  was  a  Southern  woman,  and  had  died  abroad,  just  at 
the  close  of  the  war,  leaving  him  a  little  girl,  who  was  the 
idol  of  his  heart.  He  was  interested  in  the  South,  and 
came  South  to  try  and  recuperate  from  the  effects  of  his 
wound  and  of  exposure  during  the  war. 

The  handsomest  place  in  the  neighborhood  of  Elphin 
stone  was  "Rosedale,"  the  family-seat  of  the  Berkeleys. 
Mr.  Berkeley  had  been  killed  in  the  war,  and  the  planta- 

21 


GORDON   KEITH 

tion  went,  like   Elphinstone  and  most  of  the  other  old 
estates,  for  debt.     And  General  Huntington  purchased  it. 

As  soon  as  General  Keith  heard  of  his  arrival  in  the  neigh 
borhood,  he  called  on  him  and  invited  him  to  stay  at  his 
house  until  Kosedale  should  be  refurnished  and  made  com 
fortable  again.  The  two  gentlemen  soon  became  great 
friends,  and  though  many  of  the  neighbors  looked  askance 
at  the  Federal  officer  and  grumbled  at  his  possessing  the 
old  family-seat  of  the  Berkeleys,  the  urbanity  and  real 
kindness  of  the  dignified,  soldierly  young  officer  soon  made 
his  way  easier  and  won  him  respect  if  not  friendship. 
When  a  man  had  been  a  general  at  the  age  of  twenty-six, 
it  meant  that  he  was  a  man,  and  when  General  Keith  pro 
nounced  that  he  was  a  gentleman,  it  meant  that  he  was  a 
gentleman.  Thus  reasoned  the  neighbors. 

His  only  child  was  a  pretty  little  girl  of  five  or  six  years, 
with  great  brown  eyes,  yellow  curls,  and  a  rosebud  face 
that  dimpled  adorably  when  she  laughed.  When  Gordon 
saw  her  he  recognized  her  instantly  as  the  tot  who  had 
given  her  doll  to  the  little  dancer  two  years  before.  Her 
eyes  could  not  be  mistaken.  She  used  to  drive  about  in 
the  tiniest  of  village  carts,  drawn  by  the  most  Liliputian  of 
ponies,  and  Gordon  used  to  call  her  " Cindy, "—short  for 
Cinderella,— which  amused  and  pleased  her.  She  in  turn 
called  him  her  sweetheart ;  tyrannized  over  him,  and  finally 
declared  that  she  was  going  to  marry  him. 

"Why,  you  are  not  going  to  have  a  rebel  for  a  sweet 
heart?"  said  her  father. 

"Yes,  I  am.  I  am  going  to  make  him  Union,"  she  de 
clared  gravely. 

"Well,  that  is  a  good  way.  I  fancy  that  is  about  the 
best  system  of  Reconstruction  that  has  yet  been  tried." 

He  told  the  story  to  General  Keith,  who  rode  over  very 
soon  afterwards  to  see  the  child,  and  thenceforth  called  her 
his  fairy  daughter. 

One  day  she  had  a  tiff  with  Gordon,  and  she  announced 
to  him  that  she  was  not  going  to  kiss  him  any  more. 

22 


GENERAL   KEITH   BECOMES   AN   OVERSEER 

"Oh,  yes,  you  are/7  said  he,  teasing  her. 

"I  am  not."  Her  eyes  flashed.  And  although  he  often 
teased  her  afterwards,  and  used  to  draw  a  circle  on  his 
cheek  which,  he  said,  was  her  especial  reservation,  she  kept 
her  word,  even  in  spite  of  the  temptation  which  he  held 
out  to  her  to  take  her  to  ride  if  she  would  relent. 

One  Spring  General  Huntington's  cough  suddenly  in 
creased,  and  he  began  to  go  downhill  so  rapidly  as  to 
cause  much  uneasiness  to  his  friends.  General  Keith  urged 
him  to  go  up  to  a  little  place  on  the  side  of  the  mountains 
which  had  been  quite  a  health-resort  before  the  war. 

"Ridgely  is  one  of  the  most  salubrious  places  I  know  for 
such  trouble  as  yours.  And  Dr.  Theophilus  Balsam  is  one 
of  the  best  doctors  in  the  State.  He  was  my  regimental 
surgeon  during  the  war.  He  is  a  Northern  man  who  came 
South  before  the  war.  I  think  he  had  an  unfortunate 
love-affair." 

"There  is  no  place  for  such  trouble  as  mine,"  said  the 
younger  man,  gravely.  "That  bullet  went  a  little  too 
deep."  Still,  he  went  to  Ridgely. 

Under  the  charge  of  Dr.  Balsam  the  young  officer  for  a 
time  revived,  and  for  a  year  or  two  appeared  on  the  way 
to  recovery.  Then  suddenly  his  old  trouble  returned,  and 
he  went  down  as  if  shot.  The  name  Huntingtou  had 
strong  association  for  the  old  physician  ;  for  it  was  a  Hunt- 
ington  that  Lois  Brooke,  the  younger  sister  of  Abigail 
Brooke,  his  old  sweetheart,  had  married,  and  Abigail 
Brooke's  refusal  to  marry  him  had  sent  him  South.  The 
Doctor  discovered  early  in  his  acquaintance  with  the 
young  officer  that  he  was  Abigail  Brooke's  nephew.  He, 
however,  made  no  reference  to  his  former  relation  to  his 
patient's  people. 

Division  bitterer  than  that  war  in  which  he  had  fought 
lay  between  them,  the  division  that  had  embittered  his 
life  and  made  him  an  exile  from  his  people.  But  the  little 
girl  with  her  great,  serious  eyes  became  the  old  physician's 
idol  and  tyrant,  and  how  he  worked  over  her  father ! 

23 


GORDON   KEITH 

Even  in  those  last  hours  when  the  end  had  unexpectedly 
appeared,  and  General  Huntiugton  was  making  his  last  ar 
rangements  with  the  same  courage  which  had  made  him  a 
noted  officer  when  hardly  more  than  a  boy,  the  Doctor 
kept  his  counsel  almost  to  the  end. 

"How  long  have  I  to  live,  Doctor?"  panted  the  dying 
man,  when  he  rallied  somewhat  from  the  attack  that  had 
struck  him  down. 

"Not  very  long." 

"Then  I  wish  you  to  send  for  General  Keith.  I  wish  him 
to  take  my  child  to  my  aunt,  Miss  Abigail  Brooke." 

"I  will  attend  to  it,"  said  the  Doctor. 

"So  long  as  she  lives  she  will  take  care  of  her.  But  she 
is  now  an  old  woman,  and  when  she  dies,  God  knows  what 
will  become  of  her." 

"I  will  look  after  her  as  long  as  I  live,"  said  the  Doctor. 

"Thank  you,  Doctor."  There  was  a  pause.  "She  is  a 
saint."  His  mind  had  gone  back  to  his  early  life.  To  this 
Dr.  Balsam  made  no  reply.  "She  has  had  a  sad  life. 
She  was  crossed  in  love  ;  but  instead  of  souring,  it  sweet 
ened  her." 

"I  was  the  man,"  said  the  Doctor,  quietly.  "I  will  look 
after  your  child." 

"You  were  !  I  never  knew  his  name.  She  never  married." 

He  gave  a  few  directions,  and  presently  said :  "My  little 
girl?  I  wish  to  see  her.  It  cannot  hurt  me !" 

"No,  it  will  not  hurt  you,"  said  the  Doctor,  quietly. 

The  child  was  brought,  and  the  dying  man's  eyes  lit  up 
as  they  rested  on  her  pink  face  and  brown  eyes  filled  with 
a  vague  wonder. 

"You  must  remember  papa." 

She  stood  on  tiptoe  and,  leaning  over,  kissed  him. 

"And  you  must  go  to  Aunt  Abby  when  I  have  gone." 

"I  will  take  Gordon  Keith  with  me,"  said  the  child. 

The  ghost  of  a  smile  nickered  about  the  dying  man's 
eyes.  Then  came  a  fit  of  coughing,  and  when  it  had  passed, 
his  head,  after  a  few  gasps,  sank  back. 

24 


GENERAL    KEITH   BECOMES   AN   OVERSEER 

At  a  word  from  the  Doctor,  an  attendant  took  the  child 
out  of  the  room. 

That  evening  the  old  Doctor  saw  that  the  little  girl  was 
put  to  bed,  and  that  night  he  sat  up  alone  with  the  body. 
There  were  many  others  to  relieve  him,  but  he  declined 
them  and  kept  his  vigil  alone. 

What  memories  were  with  him  ;  what  thoughts  attended 
him  through  those  lonely  hours,  who  can  tell ! 

General  Keith  went  immediately  to  Ridgely  on  hearing 
of  General  Huntiugton's  death.  He  took  Gordon  with 
him,  thinking  that  he  would  help  to  comfort  the  little  or 
phaned  girl.  The  boy  had  no  idea  how  well  he  was  to 
know  the  watering-place  in  after  years.  The  child  fell  to 
his  care  and  clung  to  him,  finally  going  to  sleep  in  his  arms. 
While  the  arrangements  were  being  made,  they  moved  for 
a  day  or  two  over  to  Squire  Rawson's,  the  leading  man 
of  the  Ridge  region,  where  the  squire's  granddaughter,  a 
fresh-faced  girl  of  ten  or  twelve  years,  took  care  of  the 
little  orphan  and  kept  her  interested. 

The  burial,  in  accordance  with  a  wish  expressed  by 
General  Huntington,  took  place  in  a  corner  of  the  little 
burying-ground  at  Ridgely,  which  lay  on  a  sunny  knoll 
overlooking  the  long  slope  to  the  northeastward.  The 
child  walked  after  the  bier,  holding  fast  to  Gordon's  hand, 
while  Dr.  Balsam  and  General  Keith  walked  after  them. 

As  soon  as  General  Keith  could  hear  from  Miss  Brooke 
he  took  the  child  to  her  ;  but  to  the  last  Lois  said  that  she 
wanted  Gordon  to  come  with  her. 

Soon  afterwards  it  appeared  that  General  Huntingtou's 
property  had  nearly  all  gone.  His  plantation  was  sold. 

Several  times  Lois  wrote  Gordon  quaint  little  letters 
scrawled  in  a  childish  hand,  asking  about  the  calves  and 
pigeons  and  chickens  that  had  been  her  friends.  But  after 
a  while  the  letters  ceased  to  come. 

When  Elphinstone  was  sold,  the  purchaser  was  a  certain 
Mr.  Aaron  Wickersham  of  New  York,  the  father  of  Ferdy 
Wickersham,  with  whom  Gordon  had  had  the  rock-battle. 

25 


GORDON   KEITH 

Mr.  Wickersham  was  a  stout  and  good-humored  man  of 
fifty,  with  a  head  like  a  billiard-ball,  and  a  face  that  was 
both  shrewd  and  kindly.  He  had,  during  the  war,  made  a 
fortune  out  of  contracts,  and  was  now  preparing  to  increase 
it  in  the  South,  where  the  mountain  region,  filled  with  coal 
and  iron,  lay  virgin  for  the  first  comer  with  sufficient  cour 
age  and  astuteness  to  take  it.  He  found  the  new  legisla 
ture  of  the  State  an  instrument  well  fitted  to  his  hands. 
It  could  be  manipulated. 

The  Wickershams  had  lately  moved  into  a  large  new 
house  on  Fifth  Avenue,  where  Fashion  was  climbing  the  hill 
toward  the  Park  in  the  effort  to  get  above  Murray  Hill,  and 
possibly  to  look  down  upon  the  substantial  and  somewhat 
prosaic  mansions  below,  whose  doors  it  had  sometimes  been 
found  difficult  to  enter.  Mrs.  Wickersham  was  from 
Brookford,  the  same  town  from  which  the  Huntingtons 
came,  and,  when  a  young  and  handsome  girl,  having  social 
ambitions,  had  married  Aaron  Wickersham  when  he  was 
but  a  clerk  in  the  banking-house  of  Wentworth  &  Son. 
And,  be  it  said,  she  had  aided  him  materially  in  advancing 
his  fortunes.  She  was  a  handsome  woman,  and  her  social 
ambitions  had  grown.  Ferdy  was  her  only  child,  and  was 
the  joy  and  pride  of  her  heart.  Her  ambition  centred  in 
him.  He  should  be  the  leader  of  the  town,  as  she  felt  his 
beauty  and  his  smartness  entitled  him  to  be.  It  was  with 
this  aim  that  she  induced  her  husband  to  build  the  fine 
new  house  on  the  avenue.  She  knew  the  value  of  a  large 
and  handsome  mansion  in  a  fashionable  quarter.  Aaron 
Wickersham  knew  little  of  fashion ;  but  he  knew  the 
power  of  money,  and  he  had  absolute  confidence  in  his 
wife's  ability.  He  would  furnish  the  means  and  leave  the 
rest  to  her.  The  house  was  built  and  furnished  by  con 
tract,  and  Mrs.  Wickersham  took  pride  in  the  fact  that 
it  was  much  finer  than  the  Wentworth  mansion  on  Wash 
ington  Square,  and  more  expensive  than  the  house  of  the 
Yorkes,  which  was  one  of  the  big  houses  on  the  avenue, 
and  had  been  the  talk  of  the  town  when  it  was  built  ten 

26 


GENERAL   KEITH   BECOMES   AN   OVERSEER 

years  before.  Will  Stirling,  one  of  the  wags,  said  that  it 
was  a  good  thing  that  Mr.  Wickersham  did  not  take  the 
contract  for  himself. 

Mr.  Wickersham,  having  spent  a  considerable  sum  in 
planning  and  preparing  his  Southern  enterprise,  and  having 
obtained  a  charter  from  the  legislature  of  the  State  that 
gave  him  power  to  do  almost  anything  he  wished,  suddenly 
found  himself  balked  by  the  fact  that  the  people  in  the 
mountain  region  which  he  wished  to  reach  with  his  road 
were  so  bitterly  opposed  to  any  such  innovation  that  it 
jeopardized  his  entire  scheme.  From  the  richest  man  in 
that  section,  an  old  cattle-dealer  and  lumberman  named 
Rawson,  to  Tim  Gilsey,  who  drove  the  stage  from  Eden 
to  Gumbolt  Gap,  they  were  all  opposed  to  any  "new 
fangled  "  notions,  and  they  regarded  everything  that  came 
from  carpet-baggers  as  "robbery  and  corruption." 

He  learned  that  "the  most  influential  man  down  there" 
was  General  Keith,  and  that  his  place  was  for  sale. 

"I  can  reach  him,"  said  Mr.  Wickersham,  with  a  gleam 
in  his  eye.  "I  will  have  a  rope  around  his  neck  that  will 
lead  him."  So  he  bought  the  place. 

Fortunately,  perhaps,  for  Mr.  Wickersham,  he  hinted 
something  of  his  intentions  to  his  counsel,  a  shrewd  old 
lawyer  of  the  State,  who  thought  that  he  could  arrange  the 
matter  better  than  Mr.  Wickersham  could. 

"You  don't  know  how  to  deal  with  these  old  fellows," 
he  said. 

"I  know  men,"  said  Mr.  Wickersham,  "and  I  know  that 
when  I  have  a  hold  on  a  man—" 

"You  don't  know  General  Keith,"  said  Mr.  Bagge.  The 
glint  in  his  eye  impressed  the  other  and  he  yielded. 

So  Mr.  Wickersham  bought  the  Keith  plantation  and 
left  it  to  Greene  Bagge,  Esq.,  to  manage  the  business.  Mr. 
Bagge  wrote  General  Keith  a  diplomatic  letter  eulogistic  of 
the  South  and  of  Mr.  Wickersham's  interest  in  it,  and 
invited  the  General  to  remain  on  the  place  for  the  present 
as  its  manager. 

27 


GORDON   KEITH 

General  Keith  sat  for  some  time  over  that  letter,  his 
face  as  grave  as  it  had  ever  been  in  battle.  What  swept 
before  his  mental  vision  who  shall  know?  The  history  of 
two  hundred  years  bound  the  Keiths  to  Elphinstone.  They 
had  carved  it  from  the  forest  and  had  held  it  against  the 
Indian.  From  there  they  had  gone  to  the  highest  office  of 
the  State.  Love,  marriage,  death— all  the  sanctities  of  life 
—were  bound  up  with  it.  He  talked  it  over  with  Gordon. 

Gordon's  face  fell. 

"Why,  father,  you  will  be  nothing  but  an  overseer." 

General  Keith  smiled.  Gordon  remembered  long  after 
wards,  with  shame  for  his  speech,  how  wistful  that  smile 
was. 

"Yes  5  I  shall  be  something  more  than  that.  I  shall  be, 
at  least,  a  faithful  one.  I  wish  I  could  be  as  successful  a 
one." 

He  wrote  saying  that,  as  he  had  failed  for  himself,  he  did 
not  see  how  he  could  succeed  for  another.  But  upon  re 
ceiving  a  very  flattering  reassurance,  he  accepted  the  offer. 
Thus,  the  General  remained  as  an  employ^  on  the  estate 
which  had  been  renowned  for  generations  as  the  home  of 
the  Keiths.  And  as  agent  for  the  new  owner  he  farmed 
the  place  with  far  greater  energy  and  success  than  he  had 
ever  shown  on  his  own  account.  It  was  a  bitter  cup  for 
Gordon  to  have  his  father  act  as  an  "overseer"  ;  but  if  it 
contained  any  bitterness  for  General  Keith,  he  never  gave 
the  least  evidence  of  it,  nor  betrayed  his  feeling  by  the 
slightest  sign. 

When  Mr.  Wickersham  visited  his  new  estate  he  ad 
mitted  that  Mr.  Bagge  knew  better  than  he  how  to  deal 
with  General  Keith. 

When  he  was  met  at  the  station  by  a  tall,  gray-haired 
gentleman  who  looked  like  something  between  a  general  and 
a  churchwarden,  he  was  inclined  to  be  shy ;  but  when  the 
gentleman  grasped  his  hand,  and  with  a  voice  of  unmis 
takable  sincerity  said  he  had  driven  out  himself  to  meet 
him,  to  welcome  him  among  them,  he  felt  at  home. 

28 


GENERAL    KEITH   BECOMES   AN   OVEKSEER 

"It  is  gentlemen  like  yourself  to  whom  we  must  look  for 
the  preservation  of  our  civilization,"  said  General  Keith, 
and  introduced  him  personally  to  every  man  he  met  as, 
"the  gentleman  who  has  bought  my  old  place— not  a 
'  carpet- bagger,'  but  a  gentleman  interested  in  the  develop 
ment  of  our  country,  sir." 

Mr.  Wickersham,  in  fact,  was  treated  with  a  distinction 
to  which  he  had  been  a  stranger  during  his  former  visits 
South.  He  liked  it.  He  felt  quite  like  a  Southern  gentle 
man,  and  with  one  or  two  Northerners  whom  he  met  held 
himself  a  little  distantly. 

Once  or  twice  the  new  owner  of  Elphinstone  came  down 
with  parties  of  friends— "to  look  at  the  country."  They 
were  interested  in  developing  it,  and  had  been  getting 
sundry  acts  passed  by  the  legislature  with  this  in  view. 
(General  Keith's  nose  always  took  a  slight  elevation  when 
the  legislature  was  mentioned.)  General  Keith  enter 
tained  the  visitors  precisely  as  he  had  done  when  he  was 
the  master,  and  Mr.  Wickersham  and  his  guests  treated 
him,  in  the  main,  as  if  he  were  still  the  master.  General 
Keith  sat  at  the  foot  of  the  table  opposite  Mr.  Wickersham, 
and  directed  the  servants,  who  still  called  him  "Master," 
and  obeyed  him  as  such. 

Mr.  Wickersham  conceived  a  great  regard  for  General 
Keith,  not  unmingled  with  a  certain  contempt  for  his  ina 
bility  to  avail  himself  of  the  new  conditions.  "Fine  old 
fellow,"  he  said  to  his  friends.  "No  more  business-sense 
than  a  child.  If  he  had  he  would  go  in  with  us  and  make 
money  for  himself  instead  of  telling  us  how  to  make  it." 
He  did  not  know  that  General  Keith  would  not  have  "gone 
in  "  with  him  in  the  plan  he  had  carried  through  that  legis 
lature  to  save  his  life.  But  he  honored  the  old  fellow  all 
the  more.  He  had  stood  up  for  the  General  against  Mrs. 
Wickersham,  who  hated  all  Keiths  on  Ferdy's  account. 
The  old  General,  who  was  as  oblivious  of  this  as  a  child, 
was  always  sending  Mrs.  Wickersham  his  regards. 

"Perhaps,  she  might  like  to  come  down  and  see  the 

29 


GOKDON   KEITH 

place?"  he  suggested.  "It  is  not  what  it  used  to  be,  but 
we  can  make  her  comfortable."  His  glance  as  it  swept 
about  him  was  full  of  affection. 

Mr.  Wickersham  said  he  feared  that  Mrs.  Wickersham's 
health  would  not  permit  her  to  come  South. 

"This  is  the  very  region  for  her,"  said  the  General. 
"There  is  a  fine  health-resort  in  the  mountains,  a  short 
distance  from  us.  I  have  been  there,  and  it  is  in  charge 
of  an  old  friend  of  mine,  Dr.  Balsam,  one  of  the  best 
doctors  in  the  State.  He  was  my  regimental  surgeon.  I 
can  recommend  him.  Bring  her  down,  and  let  us  see  what 
we  can  do  for  her." 

Mr.  Wickersham  thanked  him  with  a  smile.  Time  had 
been  when  Mrs.  Wickersham  had  been  content  with  small 
health-resorts.  But  that  time  was  past.  He  did  not  tell 
General  Keith  that  Mrs.  Wickersham,  remembering  the 
fight  between  her  son  and  Gordon,  had  consented  to  his 
buying  the  place  from  a  not  very  noble  motive,  and  vowed 
that  she  would  never  set  her  foot  on  it  so  long  as  a  Keith 
remained  there.  He  only  assured  the  General  that  he 
would  convey  his  invitation. 

Mr.  Wickersham's  real  interest,  however,  lay  in  the 
mountains  to  the  westward.  And  General  Keith  gave  him 
some  valuable  hints  as  to  the  deposits  lying  in  the  Eidge 
and  the  mountains  beyond  the  Kidge. 

"I  will  give  you  letters  to  the  leading  men  in  that  re 
gion,"  he  said.  "The  two  most  influential  men  up  there 
are  Dr.  Balsam  and  Squire  Rawson.  They  have,  like 
Abraham  and  Lot,  about  divided  up  the  country." 

Mr.  Wickersham's  eyes  glistened.  He  thanked  him,  and 
said  that  he  might  call  on  him. 

Once  there  came  near  being  a  clash  between  Mr.  Wicker 
sham  and  General  Keith.  When  Mr.  Wickersham  men 
tioned  that  he  had  invited  a  number  of  members  of  the 
legislature— "gentlemen  interested  in  the  development  of 
the  resources  of  the  State"— to  meet  him,  the  General's 

30 


GENERAL    KEITH   BECOMES   AN   OVERSEER 

face  changed.  There  was  a  little  tilting  of  the  nose  and 
a  slight  quivering  of  the  nostrils.  A  moment  later  he 
spoke. 

"I  will  have  everything  in  readiness  for  your— f— for 
your  guests ;  but  I  must  ask  you  to  excuse  me  from  meet 
ing  them." 

Mr.  Wickersham  turned  to  him.  in  blank  amazement. 

"Why,  General?" 

The  expression  on  the  old  gentleman's  face  answered  him. 
He  knew  that  at  a  word  he  should  lose  his  agent,  and  he 
had  use  for  him.  He  had  plans  that  were  far-reaching,  and 
the  General  could  be  of  great  service  to  him. 

When  the  statesmen  arrived,  everything  on  the  place 
was  in  order ;  they  were  duly  met  at  the  station,  and  were 
welcomed  at  the  house  by  the  owner.  Everything  for  their 
entertainment  was  prepared.  Even  the  fresh  mint  was  in 
the  tankard  on  the  old  sideboard.  Only  the  one  who  had 
made  these  preparations  was  absent. 

Just  before  the  vehicles  were  to  return  from  the  railway, 
General  Keith  walked  into  the  room  where  Mr.  Wicker- 
sham  was  lounging.  He  was  booted  and  spurred  for  riding. 

"Everything  is  in  order  for  your  guests,  sir.  Richard 
will  see  that  they  are  looked  after.  These  are  the  keys. 
Richard  knows  them  all,  and  is  entirely  reliable.  I  will 
ask  you  to  excuse  me  till— for  a  day  or  two." 

Mr.  Wickersham  had  been  revolving  in  his  mind  what 
he  should  say  to  the  old  gentleman.  He  had  about  decided 
to  speak  very  plainly  to  him  on  the  folly  of  such  narrow 
ness.  Something,  however,  in  the  General's  air  again 
deterred  him :  a  thinning  of  the  nostril ;  an  unwonted 
firmness  of  the  mouth.  A  sudden  increase  in  the  resem 
blance  to  the  man-in-armor  over  the  mantel  struck  him— 
a  mingled  pride  and  gravity.  It  removed  him  a  hundred 
years  from  the  present. 

The  keen-eyed  capitalist  liked  the  General,  and  in  a  way 
honored  him  greatly.  His  old-fashioned  ideas  entertained 

31 


GOKDON   KEITH 

him.  So  what  he  said  was  said  kindly.  He  regretted  that 
the  General  could  not  stay ;  he  "  would  have  liked  him  to 
know  his  friends." 

"They  are  not  such  bad  fellows,  after  all.  Why,  one  of 
them  is  a  preacher,"  he  said  jocularly  as  he  walked  to  the 
door,  "and  a  very  bright  fellow.  J.  Quincy  Plume  is  re 
garded  as  a  man  of  great  ability." 

"  Yes,  sir ;  I  have  heard  of  him.  His  doctrine  is  from 
the  l Wicked  Bible' ;  he  omits  the  'not.'  Good  morning." 
And  General  Keith  bowed  himself  out. 

When  the  guests  arrived,  Mr.  Wickersham  admitted  to 
himself  that  they  were  a  strange  lot  of  "assorted  states 
men."  He  was  rather  relieved  that  the  General  had  not 
remained.  When  he  looked  about  the  table  that  evening, 
after  the  juleps  were  handed  around  and  the  champagne 
had  followed,  he  was  still  more  glad.  The  set  of  old  Rich 
ard's  head  and  the  tilt  of  his  nose  were  enough  to  face.  An 
old  and  pampered  hound  in  the  presence  of  a  pack  of  pup 
pies  could  not  have  been  more  disdainful. 

The  preacher  he  had  mentioned,  Mr.  J.  Quincy  Plume, 
was  one  of  the  youngest  members  of  the  party  and  one  of 
the  most  striking— certainly  one  of  the  most  convivial  and 
least  abashed.  Mr.  Plume  had,  to  use  his  own  expression, 
"plucked  a  feather  froni  many  wings,  and  bathed  his  glisten 
ing  pinions  in  the  iridescent  light  of  many  orbs."  He  had 
been  "something  of  a  doctor  "  ;  then  had  become  a  preacher 
—to  quote  him  again,  "not  exactly  of  the  gospel  as  it  was 
understood  by  mossbacked  theologians,  of  'a  creed  out 
worn,'"  but  rather  the  "gospel  of  the  new  dispensa 
tion,  of  the  new  brotherhood— the  gospel  of  liberty, 
equality,  fraternity."  Now  he  had  found  his  true  voca 
tion,  that  of  statesmanship,  where  he  could  practise  what 
he  had  preached  ;  could  "bask  in  the  light  of  the  effulgent 
sun  of  progress,  and,  shod  with  the  sandals  of  Mercury,  soar 
into  a  higher  empyrean  than  he  had  yet  attained."  All 
of  which,  being  translated,  meant  that  Mr.  Plume,  having 
failed  in  several  professions,  was  bent  now  on  elevating 

32 


GENERAL   KEITH   BECOMES   AN   OVERSEER 

himself  by  the  votes  of  the  ignorant  followers  whom  he 
was  cajoling  into  taking  him  as  a  leader. 

Mr.  Wickersham  had  had  some  dealing  with  him  and  had 
found  him  capable  and  ready  for  any  job.  When  he  had 
been  in  the  house  an  hour  Mr.  Wickersham  was  delighted 
with  him,  and  mentally  decided  to  secure  him  for  his 
agent.  When  he  had  been  there  a  day  Mr.  Wickersham 
mentally  questioned  whether  he  had  not  better  drop  him 
out  of  his  schemes  altogether. 

One  curious  thing  was  that  each  guest  secretly  warned 
him  against  all  the  others. 

The  prices  were  much  higher  than  Mr.  Wickersham.  had 
expected.  But  they  were  subject  to  scaling. 

"Well,  Richard,  what  do  you  think  of  the  gentlemen  $" 
asked  Mr.  Wickersham  of  the  old  servant,  much  amused 
at  his  disdain. 

"What  gent'mens?" 

"Why,  our  guests."  He  used  the  possessive  that  the 
General  used. 

"Does  you  call  dem  i  gent'mens  '  ?  "  demanded  the  old 
servant,  fixing  his  eyes  on  him. 

"Well,  no  ;  I  don't  think  I  do— all  of  them." 

"Nor,  suh;  dee  ain't  gent'mens;  dee's  scalawags !"  said 
Richard,  with  contempt.  "I  been  livin'  heah  'bout  sixty 
years,  I  reckon,  an'  I  never  seen  nobody  like  dem  eat  at 
de  table  an'  sleep  in  de  beds  in  dis  house  befo'." 

When  the  statesmen  were  gone  and  General  Keith  had 
returned,  old  Richard  gave  Mr.  Wickersham  an  exhibition 
of  the  manner  in  which  a  gentleman  should  be  treated. 


33 


CHAPTER  III 
THE  ENGINEER  AND  THE   SQUIRE 

MARIUS  amid  the  ruins  of  Carthage  is  not  an  inspiring 
figure  to  us  while  we  are  young ;  it  is  Marius  riding 
up  the  Via  Sacra  at  the  head  of  his  resounding  legions  that 
then  dazzles  us.  But  as  we  grow  older  we  see  how  much 
greater  he  was  when,  seated  amid  the  ruins,  he  sent  his 
scornful  message  to  Rome.  So,  Gordon  Keith,  when  a  boy, 
thought  being  a  gentleman  a  very  easy  and  commonplace 
thing.  He  had  known  gentlemen  all  his  life— had  been 
bred  among  them.  It  was  only  later  on,  after  he  got  out 
into  the  world,  that  he  saw  how  fine  and  noble  that  old  man 
was,  sitting  unmoved  amid  the  wreck  not  only  of  his  life 
and  fortunes,  but  of  his  world. 

General  Keith  was  unable  to  raise  even  the  small  sum 
necessary  to  send  the  boy  to  college,  but  among  the  debris 
of  the  old  home  still  remained  the  relics  of  a  once  choice 
library,  and  General  Keith  became  himself  his  son's  in 
structor.  It  was  a  very  irregular  system  of  study,  but  the 
boy,  without  knowing  it,  was  browsing  in  those  pastures 
that  remain  ever  fresh  and  green.  There  was  nothing  that 
related  to  science  in  any  form. 

"I  know  no  more  of  science,  sir,  than  an  Indian,"  the 
General  used  to  say.  "The  only  sciences  I  ever  thought  I 
knew  were  politics  and  war,  and  I  have  failed  in  both." 

He  knew  very  little  of  the  world— at  least,  of  the  modern 
world.  Once,  at  table,  Gordon  was  wishing  that  they  had 
money. 

34 


THE   ENGINEER   AND   THE   SQUIRE 

"My  son/'  said  his  father,  quietly,  "there  are  some 
things  that  gentlemen  never  discuss  at  table.  Money  is 
one  of  them."  Such  were  his  old-fashioned  views. 

It  was  fortunate  for  his  son,  then,  that  there  came  to 
the  neighborhood  about  this  time  a  small  engineering 
party,  sent  down  by  Mr.  Wickersham  to  make  a  prelimi 
nary  survey  for  a  railroad  line  up  into  the  Ridge  country 
above  General  Keith's  home.  The  young  engineer,  Mr. 
Grinnell  Rhodes,  brought  a  letter  to  General  Keith  from 
Mr.  Wickersham.  He  had  sent  his  son  down  with  the 
young  man,  and  he  asked  that  the  General  would  look  after 
him  a  little  and  would  render  Mr.  Rhodes  any  assistance 
in  his  power.  The  tall  young  engineer,  with  his  clear 
eyes,  pleasant  voice,  and  quick  ways,  immediately  ingrati 
ated  himself  with  both  General  Keith  and  Gordon.  The 
sight  of  the  instruments  and,  much  more,  the  appearance 
of  the  young  "chief,"  his  knowledge  of  the  world,  and  his 
dazzling  authority  as,  clad  in  corduroy  and  buttoned  in 
high  yellow  gaiters,  he  day  after  day  strode  forth  with 
his  little  party  and  ran  his  lines,  sending  with  a  wave  of 
his  hand  his  rodmen  to  right  or  left  across  deep  ravines 
and  over  eminences,  awakened  new  ambitions  in  Gordon 
Keith's  soul.  The  talk  of  building  great  bridges,  of  span 
ning  mighty  chasms,  and  of  tunnelling  mountains  inspired 
the  boy.  What  was  Newton  making  his  calculations  from 
which  to  deduce  his  fundamental  laws,  or  Galileo  watching 
the  stars  from  his  Florentine  tower  ?  This  young  captain 
was  Archimedes  and  Euclid,  Newton  and  Galileo,  all  in 
one.  He  made  them  live. 

It  was  a  new  world  for  Gordon.     He  suddenly  awoke. 

Both  the  engineer  and  Gordon  could  well  have  spared 
one  of  the  engineer's  assistants.  Ferdy  Wickersham  had 
fulfilled  the  promise  of  his  boyhood,  and  would  have  been 
very  handsome  but  for  an  expression  about  the  dark  eyes 
which  raised  a  question.  He  was  popular  with  girls,  but 
made  few  friends  among  men,  and  he  and  Mr.  Rhodes  had 
already  clashed.  Rhodes  gave  some  order  which  Ferdy 

35 


GORDON   KEITH 

refused  to  obey.     Rhodes  turned  on  him  a  cold  blue  eye. 
"What  did  you  say!" 

"I  guess  this  is  niy  father's  party;  he's  paying  the 
freight,  and  I  guess  I  am  his  son." 

"I  guess  it's  my  party,  and  you'll  do  what  I  say  or  go 
home/'  said  Mr.  Rhodes,  coldly.  "Your  father  has  no 
'son'  in  this  party.  I  have  a  rodman.  Unless  you  are 
sick,  you  do  your  part  of  the  work." 

Ferdy  submitted  for  reasons  of  his  own;  but  his  eyes 
lowered,  and  he  did  not  forget  Mr.  Rhodes. 

The  two  youngsters  soon  fell  out.  Ferdy  began  to  give 
orders  about  the  place,  quite  as  if  he  were  the  master. 
The  General  cautioned  Gordon  not  to  mind  what  he  said. 
"He  has  been  spoiled  a  little ;  but  don't  mind  him.  An 
only  child  is  at  a  great  disadvantage."  He  spoke  as  if 
Gordon  were  one  of  a  dozen  children. 

But  Ferdy  Wickersham  misunderstood  the  other's  con 
cession.  He  resented  the  growing  intimacy  between 
Rhodes  and  Gordon.  He  had  discovered  that  Gordon  was 
most  sensitive  about  the  old  plantation,  and  he  used  his 
knowledge.  And  when  Mr.  Rhodes  interposed  it  only  gave 
the  sport  of  teasing  Gordon  a  new  point. 

One  morning,  when  the  three  were  together,  Ferdy 
began,  what  he  probably  meant  for  banter,  to  laugh  at 
Gordon  for  bragging  about  his  plantation. 

"You  ought  to  have  heard  him,  Mr.  Rhodes,  how  he 
used  to  blow  about  it." 

"I  did  not  blow  about  it,"  said  Gordon,  flushing. 

Rhodes,  without  looking  up,  moved  in  his  seat  uneasily. 

"Ferdy,  shut  up— you  bother  me.     I  am  working." 

But  Ferdy  did  not  heed  either  this  warning  or  the  look 
on  Gordon's  face.  His  game  had  now  a  double  zest :  he 
could  sting  Gordon  and  worry  Rhodes. 

"I  don't  see  why  my  old  man  was  such  a  fool  as  to  want 
such  a  dinged  lonesome  old  place  for,  anyhow,"  he  said, 
with  a  little  laugh.  "I  am  going  to  give  it  away  when  I 
get  it." 

36 


THE   ENGINEER   AND   THE   SQUIRE 

Gordon's  face  whitened  and  flamed  again,  and  his  eyes 
began  to  snap. 

"Then  it's  the  only  thing  you  ever  would  give  away," 
said  Mr.  Rhodes,  pointedly,  without  raising  his  eyes  from 
his  work. 

Gordon  took  heart.  "Why  did  you  come  down  here  if 
you  feel  that  way  about  it?" 

"Because  my  old  man  offered  me  five  thousand  if  I'd 
come.  You  didn't  think  I'd  come  to  this  blanked  old 
place  for  nothin',  did  you  ?  Not  much,  sonny." 

"Not  if  he  knew  you,"  said  Mr.  Rhodes,  looking  across  at 
him.  "If  he  knew  you,  he'd  know  you  never  did  anything 
for  nothing,  Ferdy." 

Ferdy  flushed.  "I  guess  I  do  it  about  as  often  as  you  do. 
I  guess  you  struck  my  governor  for  a  pretty  big  pile." 

Mr.  Rhodes's  face  hardened,  and  he  fixed  his  eyes  on 
him.  "If  I  do,  I  work  for  it  honestly.  I  don't  make  an 
agreement  to  work,  and  then  play  'old  soldier'  on  him." 

"I  guess  you  would  if  you  didn't  have  to  work." 

"Well,  I  wouldn't,"  said  Mr.  Rhodes,  firmly,  "and  I 
don't  want  to  hear  any  more  about  it.  If  you  won't  work, 
then  I  want  you  to  let  me  work." 

Ferdy  growled  something  under  his  breath  about  guessing 
that  Mr.  Rhodes  was  "working  to  get  Miss  Harriet  Creamer 
and  her  pile  "  ;  but  if  Mr.  Rhodes  heard  him  he  took  no 
notice  of  it,  and  Ferdy  turned  back  to  the  boy. 

Meantime,  Gordon  had  been  calculating.  Five  thousand 
dollars  !  Why,  it  was  a  fortune  !  It  would  have  relieved 
his  father,  and  maybe  have  saved  the  place.  In  his  amaze 
ment  he  almost  forgot  his  anger  with  the  boy  who  could 
speak  of  such  a  sum  so  lightly. 

Ferdy  gave  him  a  keen  glance.  "What  are  you  so  huffy 
about,  Keith?"  he  demanded.  "I  don't  see  that  it's  any 
thing  to  you  what  I  say  about  the  place.  You  don't  own 
it.  I  guess  a  man  has  a  right  to  say  what  he  chooses  of 
his  own." 

Gordon  wheeled  on  him  with  blazing  eyes,  then  turned 

37 


GORDON   KEITH 

around  and  walked  abruptly  away.  He  could  scarcely 
keep  back  his  tears.  The  other  boy  watched  him  non 
chalantly,  and  then  turned  to  Mr.  Rhodes,  who  was  glow 
ering  over  his  papers.  "I'll  take  him  down  a  point  or 
two.  He's  always  blowing  about  his  blamed  old  place  as 
if  he  still  owned  it.  He's  worse  than  the  old  man,  who  is 
always  blowing  about '  before  the  war '  and  his  grandfather 
and  his  old  pictures.  I  can  buy  better  ancestors  on  Broad 
way  for  twenty  dollars." 

Mr.  Rhodes  gathered  up  his  papers  and  rose  to  his  feet. 

"You  could  not  make  yourself  as  good  a  descendant  for 
a  million,"  he  said,  fastening  his  eye  grimly  on  Ferdy. 

"Oh,  couldn't  I?  Well,  I  guess  I  could.  I  guess  I  am 
about  as  good  as  he  is,  or  you  either." 

"Well,  you  can  leave  me  out  of  the  case,"  said  Mr. 
Rhodes,  sharply.  "I  will  tell  you  that  you  are  not  as  good 
as  he,  for  he  would  never  have  said  to  you  what  you  have 
said  to  him  if  your  positions  had  been  reversed." 

"I  don't  understand  you." 

"I  don't  expect  you  do,"  said  Mr.  Rhodes.  He  stalked 
away.  "I  can't  stand  that  boy.  He  makes  me  sick,"  he 
said  to  himself.  "If  I  hadn't  promised  his  governor  to 
make  him  stick,  I  would  shake  him." 

Ferdy  was  still  smarting  under  Mr.  Rhodes's  biting  sar 
casm  when  the  three  came  together  again.  He  meant  to 
be  even  with  Rhodes,  and  he  watched  his  opportunity. 

Rhodes  was  a  connection  of  the  Wentworths,  and  had 
been  helped  at  college  by  Norman's  father,  which  Ferdy 
knew.  One  of  the  handsomest  girls  in  their  set,  Miss 
Louise  Caldwell,  was  a  cousin  of  Rhodes,  and  Norman  was 
in  love  with  her.  Ferdy,  who  could  never  see  any  one 
succeeding  without  wishing  to  supplant  him,  had  of  late 
begun  to  fancy  himself  in  love  with  her  also,  but  Mr. 
Rhodes,  he  knew,  was  Norman's  friend.  He  also  knew 
that  Norman  was  Mr.  Rhodes's  friend  in  a  little  affair 
which  Mr.  Rhodes  was  having  with  one  of  the  leading 
belles  of  the  town,  Miss  Harriet  Creamer,  the  daughter  of 
Nicholas  Creamer  of  Creamer,  Crustback  &  Company. 

38 


THE    ENGINEER   AND   THE   SQUIRE 

Ferdy  had  received  that  day  a  letter  from  his  mother 
which  stated  that  Louise  CaldwelFs  mother  was  making  a 
set  at  Norman  for  her  daughter.  Ferdy 's  jealousy  was  set 
on  edge,  and  he  now  began  to  talk  about  Norman.  Rhodes 
sniffed  at  the  sneering  mention  of  his  name,  and  Gordon, 
whose  face  still  wore  a  surly  look,  pricked  up  his  ears. 

"You  need  not  always  be  cracking  Norman  up/7  said 
Wickersham  to  Rhodes.  "You  would  not  be  if  I  were  to 
tell  you  what  I  know  about  him.  He  is  no  better  than 
anybody  else." 

"Oh,  he  is  better  than  some,  Ferdy,"  said  Mr.  Rhodes. 

Gordon  gave  an  appreciative  grunt  which  drew  Ferdy's 
eyes  on  him. 

"You  think  so  too,  Keith,  I  suppose? "  he  said.  "Well, 
you  needn't.  You  need  not  be  claiming  to  be  such  a 
friend  of  his.  He  is  not  so  much  of  a  friend  of  yours,  I  can 
tell  you.  I  have  heard  him  say  as  many  mean  things 
about  you  as  any  one." 

It  was  Gordon's  opportunity.  He  had  been  waiting  for 
one. 

"I  don't  believe  it.  I  believe  it's  a  lie,"  he  declared, 
his  face  whitening  as  he  gathered  himself  together.  His 
eyes,  which  had  been  burning,  had  suddenly  begun  to 
blaze. 

Mr.  Rhodes  looked  up.  He  said  nothing,  but  his  eyes 
began  to  sparkle. 

"You're  a  liar  yourself,"  retorted  Wickersham,  turning 
red. 

Gordon  reached  for  him.  "Take  it  back  ! "  At  the  same 
moment  Rhodes  sprang  and  caught  him,  but  not  quite  in 
time.  The  tip  of  Gordon's  fingers  as  he  slapped  at  Ferdy 
just  reached  the  latter's  cheek  and  left  a  red  mark  there. 

"Take  it  back,"  he  said  again  between  his  teeth  as 
Rhodes  flung  his  arm  around  him. 

For  answer  Ferdy  landed  a  straight  blow  in  his  face, 
making  his  nose  bleed  and  his  head  ring. 

"Take  that!" 

Gordon  struggled  to  get  free,  but  in  vain.  Rhodes  with 

39 


GOBDON  KEITH 

-one  arm  swept  Wickersham  back.  With  the  other  he 
held  Gordon  in  an  iron  grip.  "Keep  off,  or  I  will  let  him 
go,"  he  said. 

The  boy  ceased  writhing,  and  looked  up  into  the  young 
man's  face.  "You  had  just  as  well  let  me  go.  I  am  going 
to  whip  him.  He  has  told  a  lie  on  my  friend,  who  saved 
my  life.  And  he's  hit  me.  Let  me  go."  He  began  to 
whimper. 

"Now,  look  here,  boys,"  said  Rhodes ;  "you  have  got 
to  stop  right  here  and  make  up.  I  won't  have  this 
fighting." 

"Let  him  go.  I  can  whip  him,"  said  Ferdy,  squaring 
himself,  and  adding  an  epithet. 

Gordon  was  standing  quite  still.  "I  am  going  to  fight 
him,"  he  said,  "and  whip  him.  If  he  whips  me,  I  am  going 
to  fight  him  again  until  I  do  whip  him." 

Mr.  Khodes's  face  wore  a  puzzled  expression.  He  looked 
down  at  the  sturdy  face  with  its  steady  eyes,  tightly 
gripped  mouth,  and  chin  which  had  suddenly  grown 
squarer. 

"If  I  let  you  go  will  you  promise  not  to  fight?  " 

"I  will  promise  not  to  fight  him  here  if  he  will  come  out 
behind  the  barn,"  said  Gordon.  "But  if  he  don't,  I'm 
going  to  fight  him  here.  I  am  going  to  fight  him  and  I  am 
going  to  whip  him." 

Mr.  Khodes  considered.  "If  I  go  out  there  with  you 
and  let  you  have  two  rounds,  will  you  make  up  and  agree 
never  to  refer  to  the  subject  again?" 

"Yes,"  said  Wickersham. 

"If  I  whip  him,"  said  Gordon. 

"Come  along  with  me.  I  will  let  you  two  boys  try  each 
other's  mettle  for  two  rounds,  but,  remember,  you  have  got 
to  stop  when  I  call  time." 

So  they  came  to  a  secluded  spot,  where  the  two  boys  took 
off  their  coats. 

"Come,  you  fellows  had  better  make  up  now,"  said  Mr. 
Khodes,  standing  above  them  good-humored  and  kindly. 

40 


THE   ENGINEER   AND   THE   SQUIRE 

"I  don't  see  what  we  are  fighting  about/'  said  Ferdy. 

"Take  back  what  you  said  about  Norman,"  demanded 
Gordon. 

"There  is  nothing  to  take  back,"  declared  Ferdy. 

"Then  take  that!"  said  Gordon,  stepping  forward  and 
tapping  him  in  the  mouth  with  the  back  of  his  hand. 

He  had  not  expected  the  other  boy  to  be  so  quick.  Before 
he  could  put  himself  on  guard,  Ferdy  had  fired  away,  and 
catching  him  right  in  the  eye,  he  sent  him  staggering 
back.  He  was  up  again  in  a  second,  however,  and  the 
next  moment  was  at  his  opponent  like  a  tiger.  The  rush 
was  as  unlocked  for  on  Wickersham's  part  as  Wickersham's 
blow  had  been  by  Gordon,  and  after  a  moment  the  lessons  of 
Mike  Doherty  began  to  tell,  and  Gordon  was  ducking  his 
head  and  dodging  Wickersham's  blows ;  and  he  began  to 
drive  him  backward. 

"By  Jove !  he  knows  his  business,"  said  Rhodes  to 
himself. 

Just  then  he  showed  that  he  knew  his  business,  for, 
swinging  out  first  with  his  right,  he  brought  in  the  cut 
which  was  Mr.  Doherty's  cheftfceuvre,  and  catching  Wicker- 
sham  under  the  chin,  he  sent  him  flat  on  his  back  on  the 
ground. 

Mr.  Rhodes  called  time  and  picked  him  up. 

"Come,  now,  that's  enough,"  he  said. 

Gordon  wiped  the  blood  from  his  face. 

"He  has  got  to  take  back  what  he  said  about  Norman, 
or  I  have  another  round." 

"You  had  better  take  it  back,  Ferdy.  You  began  it," 
said  the  umpire. 

"I  didn't  begin  it.     It's  a  lie  ! " 

"You  did,"  said  Mr.  Rhodes,  coldly.  He  turned  to 
Gordon.  "You  have  one  more  round." 

"I  take  it  back,"  growled  Ferdy. 

Just  then  there  was  a  step  on  the  grass,  and  General 
Keith  stood  beside  them.  His  face  was  very  grave  as  he 
chided  the  boys  for  fighting  ;  but  there  was  a  gleam  in  his 

41 


GORDON   KEITH 

eyes  that  showed  Mr.  Rhodes  and  possibly  the  two  com 
batants  that  he  was  not  wholly  displeased.  At  his  instance 
and  Mr.  Rhodes's,  the  two  boys  shook  hands  and  promised 
not  to  open  the  matter  again. 

As  Wickersham  continued  to  shirk  the  work  of  rod- 
man,  Rhodes  took  Gordon  in  his  party,  instructed  him  in 
the  use  of  the  instruments,  and  inspired  him  with  enthu 
siasm  for  the  work,  none  the  less  eager  because  he  con 
trasted  him  with  Ferdy.  Rhodes  knew  what  General 
Keith's  name  was  worth,  and  he  thought  his  son  being  of 
his  party  would  be  no  hindrance  to  him. 

The  trouble  came  when  he  proposed  to  the  General  to 
pay  Gordon  for  his  work. 

"He  is  worth  no  salary  at  present,  sir,"  said  the  General. 
"I  shall  be  delighted  to  have  him  go  with  you,  and  your 
instruction  will  more  than  compensate  us." 

The  matter  was  finally  settled  by  Rhodes  declining  posi 
tively  to  take  Gordon  except  on  his  own  terms.  He  needed 
an  axeman  and  would  pay  him  as  such.  He  could  not 
take  him  at  all  unless  he  were  under  his  authority. 

Mr.  Rhodes  was  not  mistaken.  General  Keith's  name 
was  one  to  conjure  with.  Squire  Rawson  was  the  principal 
man  in  all  the  Ridge  region,  and  he  had,  as  Rhodes  knew, 
put  himself  on  record  as  unalterably  opposed  to  a  railroad. 
He  was  a  large,  heavy  man,  deep-chested  and  big-limbed, 
with  grizzled  hair  and  beard,  a  mouth  closer  drawn  than 
might  have  been  expected  in  one  with  his  surroundings, 
and  eyes  that  were  small  and  deep-set,  but  very  keen.  His 
two-storied  white  house,  with  wings  and  portico,  though  not 
large,  was  more  pretentious  than  most  of  those  in  the  sec 
tion,  and  his  whitewashed  buildings,  nestled  amid  the 
fruit-trees  on  a  green  hill  looking  up  the  valley  to  the 
Gap,  made  quite  a  settlement.  He  was  a  man  of  consider 
able  property  and  also  of  great  influence,  and  in  the  Ridge 
region,  as  elsewhere,  wealth  is  a  basis  of  position  and  in 
fluence.  The  difference  is  one  of  degree.  The  evidences 
of  wealth  in  the  Ridge  country  were  land  and  cattle,  and 

42 


THE   ENGINEER   AND   THE   SQUIKE 

these  Squire  Rawson  had  in  abundance.  He  was  esteemed 
the  best  judge  of  cattle  in  all  that  region. 

Consistency  is  a  jewel ;  but  there  are  regions  where  Hos 
pitality  is  reckoned  before  Consistency,  and  as  soon  as  the 
old  squire  learned  that  General  Keith's  son  was  with  the 
surveying  party,  even  though  it  was,  to  use  a  common  phrase, 
"comin'  interferin'  "  with  that  country,  he  rode  over  to  their 
camp  and  invited  Gordon  and  his  "friends  "  to  be  his  guests 
as  long  as  they  should  remain  in  that  neighborhood. 

"I  don't  want  you  to  think,  young  man,"  he  said  to 
Rhodes,  "that  I'm  goin'  to  agree  to  your  dod-rotted  road 
comin'  through  any  land  of  mine,  killin'  my  cattle ;  but 
I'll  give  you  a  bed  and  somethin'  to  eat." 

Rhodes  felt  that  he  had  gained  a  victory ;  Gordon  was 
doubtful. 

Though  the  squire  never  failed  to  remind  the  young 
engineer  that  the  latter  was  a  Yankee,  and  as  such  the 
natural  and  necessary  enemy  of  the  South,  he  and  Rhodes 
became  great  friends,  and  the  squire's  hospitable  roof  re 
mained  the  headquarters  of  the  engineering  party  much 
longer  than  there  was  any  necessity  for  its  being  so. 

The  squire's  family  consisted  of  his  wife,  a  kindly,  bus 
tling  little  old  dame,  who  managed  everything  and  every 
body,  including  the  squire,  with  a  single  exception.  This 
was  her  granddaughter,  Euphronia  Tripper,  a  plump  and 
fresh  young  girl  with  light  hair,  a  fair  skin,  and  bright  eyes. 
The  squire  laid  down  the  law  to  those  about  him,  but  Mrs. 
Rawson— "Elizy"—  laid  down  the  law  for  him.  This  the 
old  fellow  was  ready  enough  to  admit.  Sometimes  he  had 
a  comical  gleam  in  his  deep  eyes  when  he  turned  them  on 
his  guests  as  he  rose  at  her  call  of  "Adam,  I  want  you." 

"Boys,  learn  to  obey  promptly."  he  said  ;  "saves  a  sight 
o'  trouble.  It's  better  in  the  family  >n  a  melojeon.  It's 
got  to  come  sooner  or  later,  and  the  sooner  the  better  for 
you.  The  difference  between  me  and  most  married  men 
around  here  is  that  they  lies  about  it,  and  I  don't.  I  know 
I  belongs  to  Eliza.  She  owns  me,  but  then  she  treats  me 

43 


GORDON  KEITH 

well.  I'm  sort  o'  meek  when  she's  around,  but  then  I 
make  up  for  it  by  bein'  so  durned  independent  when  I'm 
away  from  home.  Besides,  it's  a  good  deal  better  to  be 
ordered  about  by  somebody  as  keers  for  you  than  not  to 
have  anybody  in  the  world  as  keers  whether  you  come  or 
stay." 

Besides  Mrs.  Rawson,  there  were  in  the  family  a  widowed 
daughter,  Mrs.  Tripper,  a  long,  pale,  thin  woman,  with  sad 
eyes,  who  had  once  been  pretty,  and  her  daughter  Eu- 
phronia,  already  referred  to,  who,  in  right  of  being  very 
pretty,  was  the  old  squire's  idol  and  was  never  thwarted 
in  anything.  She  was,  in  consequence,  a  spoiled  little 
damsel,  self-willed,  very  vain,  and  as  susceptible  as  a 
chameleon.  The  ease  with  which  she  could  turn  her  family 
around  her  finger  gave  her  a  certain  contempt  for  them. 
At  first  she  was  quite  enamoured  of  the  young  engineer ; 
but  Mr.  Rhodes  was  too  busy  to  give  any  thought  to  a  girl 
whom  he  regarded  as  a  child,  and  she  turned  her  glances 
on  Gordon.  Gordon  also  was  impervious  to  her  charms. 
He  was  by  no  means  indifferent  to  girls ;  several  little 
damsels  who  attended  St.  Martin's  Church  had  at  one  time 
or  another  been  his  load-stars  for  a  while  ;  but  he  was  an 
aristocrat  at  heart,  and  held  himself  infinitely  above  a  girl 
like  Miss  Euphronia. 

Ferdy  Wickersham  had  no  such  motives  for  abstaining 
from  a  flirtation  with  the  young  girl  as  those  which  re 
strained  Rhodes  and  Keith. 

Euphronia  had  not  at  first  taken  much  notice  of  him. 
She  had  been  inclined  to  regard  Ferdy  Wickersham  with 
some  disfavor  as  a  Yankee  ;  but  when  the  other  two  failed 
her,  Wickersham  fell  heir  to  her  blandishments.  Her  in 
difference  to  him  had  piqued  him  and  awakened  an  inter 
est  which  possibly  he  might  not  otherwise  have  felt.  He 
had  seen  much  of  the  world  for  a  youngster,  and  could 
make  a  good  show  with  what  he  knew.  He  could  play  on 
the  piano,  and  though  the  aged  instrument  which  the  old 
countryman  had  got  at  second-hand  for  his  granddaughter 

44 


THE  ENGINEER  AND   THE   SQUIRE 

gave  forth  sounds  which  might  have  come  from  a  tinkling 
cymbal,  yet  Ferdy  played  with  a  certain  dash  and  could 
bring  from  it  tunes  which  the  girl  thought  very  fine.  The 
two  soon  began  to  be  so  much  together  that  both  Rhodes 
and  Keith  fell  to  rallying  Ferdy  as  to  his  conquest.  Ferdy 
accepted  it  with  complacency. 

"I  think  I  shall  stay  here  while  you  are  working  up  in 
the  mountains,"  he  said  to  his  chief  as  the  time  drew  near 
for  them  to  leave. 

"You  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind.  I  promised  to  take 
you  with  me,  and  I  will  take  you  dead  or  alive." 

A  frown  began  on  the  youngster's  face,  but  passed  away 
quickly,  and  in  its  place  came  a  look  of  covert  com 
placency. 

"I  thought  your  father  had  offered  you  five  thousand 
dollars  if  you  would  stick  it  out  through  the  whole  trip?'r 
Keith  said. 

Ferdy  shut  one  eye  slowly  and  gazed  at  Gordon  with  the 
other. 

"Sickness  was  barred.  I'll  tell  the  old  man  I've  stud 
ied.  He'd  never  drop  on  to  the  game.  He  is  a  soft  old 
bird,  anyway." 

"Do  you  mean  you  are  going  to  lie  to  him?"  asked 
Gordon. 

"Oh,  you  are  sappy !  All  fellows  lie  to  their  gov 
ernors,"  declared  Ferdy,  easily.  "Why,  I  wouldn't  have 
any  fun  at  all  if  I  did  not  lie.  You  stay  with  me  a  bit,  my 
son,  and  I'll  teach  you  a  few  useful  things." 

"Thank  you.  I  have  no  doubt  you  are  a  capable 
teacher,"  sniffed  Gordon ;  "but  I  think  I  won't  trouble 
you." 

That  evening,  as  Keith  was  coming  from  his  work,  he 
took  a  cross-cut  through  the  fields  and  orchard,  and  under 
an  overshadowing  tree  he  came  on  Ferdy  and  Euphronia. 
They  were  so  deeply  engaged  that  Keith  hastily  withdrew 
and,  making  a  detour,  passed  around  the  orchard  to  the 
house. 

45 


GORDON   KEITH 

At  supper  Mrs.  Tripper  casually  inquired  of  her  daugh 
ter  where  she  had  been,  a  remark  which  might  have 
escaped  Keith's  observation  had  not  Ferdy  Wickersham 
answered  it  in  some  haste. 

"She  went  after  the  cows,"  he  said,  with  a  quick  look  at 
her,  "and  I  went  fishing,  but  I  did  not  catch  anything." 

"I  thought,  Phrony,  I  saw  you  in  the  orchard/'  said  her 
mother. 

Wickersham  looked  at  her  quickly  again. 

"No,  she  wasn't  in  the  orchard,"  he  said,  "for  I  was 
there." 

"No,  I  wasn't  in  the  orchard  this  evening,"  said  Eu- 
phronia.  "I  went  after  the  cows."  She  looked  down  in 
her  plate. 

Keith  ate  the  rest  of  his  supper  in  silence.  He  could 
not  tell  on  Ferdy ;  that  would  not  be  "square."  He  con 
sulted  his  mentor,  his  chief,  who  simply  laughed  at  him. 

"Leave  'em  alone,"  he  counselled.  "I  guess  she  knew 
how  to  lie  before  he  came.  Ferdy  has  some  sense.  And 
we  are  going  to  leave  for  the  mountains  in  a  little  while. 
I  am  only  waiting  to  bring  the  old  squire  around." 

Gordon  shook  his  head. 

"My  father  says  you  mistake  his  hospitality  for  yielding," 
he  said.  "You  will  never  get  him  to  consent  to  your 
plan." 

Rhodes  laughed. 

"Oh,  won't  I !  I  have  had  these  old  countrymen  to  deal 
with  before.  Just  give  them  time  and  show  them  the 
greenbacks.  He  will  come  around.  Wait  until  I  dangle 
the  shekels  before  him." 

But  Mr.  Rhodes  found  that  in  that  provincial  field  there 
were  some  things  stronger  than  shekels.  And  among  these 
were  prejudices.  The  more  the  young  engineer  talked,  the 
more  obstinate  appeared  the  old  countryman. 

"I  raise  cattle,"  he  said  in  final  answer  to  all  his  elo 
quence. 

46 


THE   ENGINEER   AND    THE  SQTJIKE 

"Raise  cattle !  You  can  make  more  by  raising  coal  in 
one  year  than  you  can  by  raising  cattle  all  your  life. 
Why,  you  have  the  richest  mineral  country  back  here 
almost  in  the  world,"  said  the  young  diplomat,  persua 
sively. 

"And  that's  the  reason  I  want  to  keep  the  railroads 
out,"  said  the  squire,  puffing  quietly.  "I  don't  want  the 
Yankees  to  come  down  and  take  it  away  from  us." 

Rhodes  laughed.  "Fd  like  to  see  any  one  take  any 
thing  from  you.  They  will  develop  it  for  you." 

"I  never  seen  anybody  develop  anything  for  another 
man,  leastways  a  Yankee,"  said  Squire  Rawson,  reflectively. 

Just  then  Ferdy  chipped  in.  He  was  tired  of  being  left 
out. 

"My  father'll  come  down  here  and  show  you  old  moss- 
backs  a  thing  or  two,"  he  laughed. 

The  old  man  turned  his  eyes  on  him  slowly.  Ferdy  was 
not  a  favorite  with  him.  For  one  thing,  he  played  on  the 
piano.  But  there  were  other  reasons. 

"Who  is  your  father,  son?"  The  squire  drew  a  long 
whiff  from  his  pipe. 

"Aaron  Wickersham  of  Wickersham  &  Company,  who 
is  setting  up  the  chips  for  this  railroad.  We  are  going  to 
run  through  here  and  make  it  one  of  the  greatest  lines  of 
the  country." 

"Oh,  you're  gow#  to  run  it !  From  the  way  you  talked 
I  thought  maybe  you  had  run  it.  Was  a  man  named 
Aaron  once  thought  he  knew  more  'bout  runnin'  a'  expedi 
tion  than  his  brother  did.  Ever  heard  what  became 
of  him!" 

"No,"  said  Ferdy. 

"Well,  he  run  some  of  'em  in  the  ground.  He  didn't 
have  sense  to  know  the  difference  between  a  calf  and  God." 

Ferdy  flushed. 

"Well,  my  old  man  knows  enough  to  run  this  railroad. 
He  has  run  bigger  things  than  this." 

47 


GORDON   KEITH 

"If  lie  knows  as  much  as  his  son,  he  knows  a  lot.  He 
ought  to  be  able  to  run  the  world."  And  the  squire 
turned  back  to  Rhodes  : 

"What  are  you  goin'  to  do,  my  son,  when  you've  done 
all  you  say  you're  goin'  to  do  for  us?  You  will  be  too 
good  to  live  among  them  Yankees  $  you  will  have  to  come 
back  here,  I  reckon." 

"No  ;  I'm  going  to  marry  and  settle  down,"  said  Rhodes, 
jestingly.  "Maybe  I'll  come  back  here  sometime  just  to 
receive  your  thanks  for  showing  you  how  benighted  you 
were  before  I  came,  and  for  the  advice  I  gave  you." 

"He  is  trying  to  marry  a  rich  woman,"  said  Ferdy,  at 
which  Rhodes  flushed  a  little. 

The  old  man  took  no  notice  of  the  interruption. 

"Well,  you  must,"  he  said  to  Rhodes,  his  eyes  resting  on 
him  benevolently.  "You  must  come  back  sometime  and 
see  me.  I  love  to  hear  a  young  man  talk  who  knows  it 
all.  But  you  take  my  advice,  my  son  ;  don't  marry  no  rich 
man's  daughter.  They  will  always  think  they  have  done 
you  a  favor,  and  they  will  try  to  make  you  think  so  too, 
even  if  your  wife  don't  do  it.  You  take  warnin'  by 
me.  When  I  married,  I  had  just  sixteen  dollars  and 
my  wife  she  had  seventeen,  and  I  give  you  my  word  I 
have  never  heard  the  last  of  that  one  dollar  from  that  day 
to  this." 

Rhodes  laughed  and  said  he  would  remember  his  advice. 

"Sometimes  I  think,"  said  the  old  man,  "I  have  mistaken 
my  callin'.  I  was  built  to  give  advice  to  other  folks,  and 
instid  of  that  they  have  been  givin'  me  advice  all  my  life. 
It's  in  and  about  the  only  thing  I  ever  had  given  me,  ex 
cept  physic." 

The  night  before  the  party  left,  Ferdy  packed  his  kit 
with  the  rest ;  but  the  next  morning  he  was  sick  in  his  bed. 
His  pulse  was  not  quick,  but  he  complained  of  pains  in 
every  limb.  Dr.  Balsam  came  over  to  see  him,  but  could 
find  nothing  serious  the  matter.  He,  however,  advised 
Rhodes  to  leave  him  behind.  So,  Ferdy  stayed  at  Squire 

48 


THE   ENGINEER   AND   THE   SQUIRE 

Rawson's  all  the  time  that  the  party  was  in  the  mountains. 
But  he  wrote  his  father  that  he  was  studying. 

During  the  time  that  Rhodes's  party  was  in  the  moun 
tains  Squire  Rawson  rode  about  with  them  examining  lands, 
inspecting  coal-beds,  and  adding  much  to  the  success  of  the 
undertaking. 

He  appeared  to  be  interested  mainly  in  hunting  up  cat 
tle,  and  after  he  had  introduced  the  engineers  and  secured 
the  tardy  consent  of  the  landowners  for  them  to  make  a 
survey,  he  would  spend  hours  haggling  over  a  few  head  of 
mountain  cattle,  or  riding  around  through  the  mountains 
looking  for  others. 

Many  a  farmer  who  met  the  first  advances  of  the  stranger 
with  stony  opposition  yielded  amicably  enough  after  old 
Rawson  had  spent  an  hour  or  two  looking  at  his  "cattle,'r 
or  had  conversed  with  him  and  his  weather-beaten  wife 
about  the  "craps"  and  the  "child'en." 

"You  are  a  miracle  ! "  declared  young  Rhodes,  with  sin 
cere  admiration.  "How  do  you  manage  it1? " 

The  old  countryman  accepted  the  compliment  with  be 
coming  modesty. 

"Oh,  no  5  ain't  no  miracle  about  it.  All  I  know  I  learned 
at  the  Ridge  College,  and  from  an  old  uncle  of  mine,  and 
in  the  war.  He  used  to  say,  { Adam,  don't  be  a  fool ;  learn 
the  difference  between  cattle.'  Now,  before  you  come,  I 
didn't  know  nothin'  about  all  them  fureign  countries— 
they  was  sort  of  vague,  like  the  New  Jerusalem— or  about 
coal.  You've  told  me  all  about  that.  I  had  an  idea  that 
it  was  all  made  jest  so,— jest  as  we  find  it,— as  the  Bible 
says  'twas  ;  but  you  know  a  lot— more  than  Moses  knowed, 
and  he  was  i  skilled  in  all  the  learnin'  of  the  Egyptians.' 
You  haven't  taken  to  cattle  quite  as  kindly  as  I'd  'a? 
liked,  but  you  know  a  lot  about  coal.  Learn  the  differ 
ence  between  cattle,  my  son.  There's  a  sight  o'  difference 
between  'em." 

Rhodes  declared  that  he  would  remember  his  advice, 
and  the  two  parted  with  mutual  esteem. 

49 


CHAPTEE   IV 
TWO  YOUNG  MEN 

THE  young  engineer,  on  his  return  to  New  York,  made  a 
report  to  his  employer.  He  said  that  the  mineral  re 
sources  were  simply  enormous,  and  were  lying  in  sight  for 
any  one  to  pick  up  who  knew  how  to  deal  with  the  people 
to  whom  they  belonged.  They  could  be  had  almost  for  the 
asking.  But  he  added  this  statement :  that  the  legislative 
charters  would  hardly  hold,  and  even  if  they  did,  it  would 
take  an  army  to  maintain  what  they  gave  against  the  will 
of  the  people.  He  advised  securing  the  services  of  Squire 
Rawson  and  a  few  other  local  magnates. 

Mr.  Wickersham  frowned  at  this  plain  speaking,  and 
dashed  his  pen  through  this  part  of  the  report.  "I  am 
much  obliged  to  you  for  the  report  on  the  minerals.  The 
rest  of  it  is  trash.  You  were  not  paid  for  your  advice  on 
that.  When  I  want  law  I  go  to  a  lawyer." 

Mr.  Rhodes  rose  angrily. 

"Well,  you  have  for  nothing  an  opinion  that  is  worth 
more  than  that  of  every  rascally  politician  that  has  sold 
you  his  opinion  and  himself,  and  you  will  find  it  out." 

Mr.  Wickersham  did  find  it  out.  However  much  was 
published  about  it,  the  road  was  not  built  for  years.  The 
legislative  charters,  gotten  through  by  Mr.  J.  Quincy 
Plume  and  his  confreres,  which  were  to  turn  that  region 
into  a  modern  Golconda,  were  swept  away  with  the  legis 
latures  that  created  them,  and  new  charters  had  to  be 
obtained. 

50 


TWO  YOUNG  MEN 

Squire  Rawson,  however,  went  on  buying  cattle  and,  re 
port  said,  mineral  rights,  and  Gordon  Keith  still  followed 
doggedly  the  track  along  which  Mr.  Rhodes  had  passed,  sure 
that  sometime  he  should  find  him  a  great  man,  building 
bridges  and  cutting  tunnels,  commanding  others  and  send 
ing  them  to  right  or  left  with  a  swift  wave  of  his  arm  as  of 
old.  Where  before  Gordon  studied  as  a  task,  he  now  worked 
for  ambition,  and  that  key  unlocked  unknown  treasures. 

Mr.  Rhodes  fell  in  with  Norman  just  after  his  interview 
with  Mr.  Wickershain.  He  was  still  feeling  sore  over  Mr. 
Wickersham's  treatment  of  his  report.  He  had  worked 
hard  over  it.  He  attributed  it  in  part  to  Ferdy's  com 
plaint  of  him.  He  now  gave  Norman  an  account  of  his 
trip,  and  casually  mentioned  his  meeting  Gordon  Keith. 

"He's  a  good  boy,"  he  said,  "a  nice  kid.  He  licked 
Ferdy— a  very  pretty  little  piece  of  work.  Ferdy  had 
both  the  weight  and  the  reach  on  him." 

"Licked  Ferdy!  It's  an  old  grudge,  I  guess?"  said 
Norman. 

"No.  They  started  in  pretty  good  friends.  It  was 
about  you." 

"About  me?"     Norman's  face  took  on  new  interest. 

"Yes ;  Ferdy  said  something,  and  Keith  took  it  up.  He 
seems  pretty  fond  of  you.  I  think  he  had  it  in  for  Ferdy, 
for  Ferdy  had  been  bedevilling  him  about  the  place.  You 
know  old  Wickersham  owns  it.  Ferdy's  strong  point  is 
not  taste.  So  I  think  Gordon  was  feeling  a  bit  sore,  and 
when  Ferdy  lit  into  you,  Keith  slapped  him." 

Norman  was  all  alert  now. 

"Well?     Which  licked?" 

"Oh,  that  was  all.  Keith  won  at  the  end  of  the  first 
round.  He'd  have  been  fighting  now  if  he  had  not  licked 
him." 

The  rest  of  the  talk  was  of  General  Keith  and  of  the  hard 
ship  of  his  position. 

"They  are  as  poor  as  death,"  said  Rhodes.  He  told  of 
his  surroundings. 

61 


GOKDON   KEITH 

When  Norman  got  home,  he  went  to  his  mother.  Her 
«eye  lighted  up  as  it  rested  on  the  alert,  vigorous  figure  and 
fresh,  manly,  eager  face.  She  knew  he  had  something  on 
his  mind. 

"Mother,  I  have  a  plan,"  he  said.  "You  remember 
Gordon  Keith,  the  boy  whose  boat  I  sank  over  in  Eng 
land-  <  Keith  the  rebel >  t " 

Mrs.  Wentworth  remembered  well.  She  remembered  an 
older  fight  than  that,  between  a  Keith  and  a  Wentworth. 

"Well,  I  have  just  heard  of  him.  Khodes— you  remember 
Khodes  ?  Grinnell  Rhodes  ?  Used  to  be  stroke,  the  greatest 
stroke  ever  was.  Well,  Khodes  has  been  down  South  and 
stayed  at  Keith's  father's  home.  He  says  it's  a  beautiful 
old  place,  and  now  belongs  to  Mr.  Wickersham,  Ferdy's  fa 
ther,  and  the  old  gentleman,  General  Keith,  who  used  to  own 
it  farms  it  for  him.  Think  of  that !  It's  as  if  father  had  to 
be  a  bookkeeper  in  the  bank  !  Khodes  says  he's  a  fine 
old  fellow,  and  that  Gordon  is  one  of  the  best.  He  was 
down  there  running  a  railway  line  for  Mr.  Wickersham, 
and  took  Gordon  with  him.  And  he  says  he's  the  finest 
sort  of  a  fellow,  and  wants  to  go  to  college  dreadfully,  but 
hasn't  a  cent  nor  any  way  to  get  anything.  Khodes  says 
it's  awful  down  there.  They  are  so  poor." 

Mrs.  Wentworth  smiled.     "Well  ?  " 

Norman  blushed  and  stammered  a  little,  as  he  often  did 
when  he  was  embarrassed. 

"Well,  you  know  I  have  some  money  of  my  own,  and  I 
thought  if  you  don't  mind  it  I'd  like  to  lend  him  a  little. 
I  feel  rather  piggish  just  spending  it  right  and  left  for 
nothing,  when  a  fellow  like  that  would  give  his  eyes  for 
the  chance  to  go  to  college.  Grinnell  Khodes  says  that  he  is 
ever  so  fond  of  me ;  that  Ferdy  was  blowing  once  and 
said  something  against  me,  and  Gordon  jumped  right  into 
him— said  I  was  a  friend  of  his,  and  that  Ferdy  should  not 
say  anything  against  me  in  his  presence.  He  knocked 
Ferdy  down.  I  tell  you,  when  a  fellow  is  ready  to  fight  for 
another  years  after  he  has  seen  him,  he  is  a  good  friend." 

52 


TWO   YOUNG  MEN 

Mrs.  Wentworth's  face  showed  that  she  too  appreciated 
such  a  friend. 

"How  do  you  know  he  needs  it,  or  would  accept  it  if  he 
did?" 

"Why,  Rhodes  says  we  have  no  idea  of  the  poverty  down 
there.  He  says  our  poorest  clerks  are  rich  compared  with 
those  people.  And  I'll  write  him  a  letter  and  offer  to  lend 
it  to  him.  I'll  tell  him  it's  mine." 

Mrs.  Wentworth  went  over  and  kissed  the  boy.  The 
picture  rose  to  her  mind  of  a  young  man  fresh  from  fields 
where  he  had  won  renown,  honored  by  his  State,  with 
everything  that  wealth  and  rank  could  give,  laying  his 
honors  at  the  feet  of  a  poor  young  girl. 

"All  right,  my  son." 

That  night  Norman  sat  down  and  wrote  a  letter. 

A  few  days  later  than  this,  Gordon  Keith  received  a 
letter  with  the  post-mark  "New  York."  Who  was  there 
in  New  York  who  could  know  him?  Not  his  young  en 
gineer.  He  knew  his  hand.  He  was  now  abroad.  As  he 
read  the  letter  he  wondered  yet  more.  It  was  from  Norman 
Wentworth.  He  had  met  an  old  friend,  he  said,  who  had 
told  him  about  Gordon  and  about  his  father's  misfortunes. 
He  himself,  he  said,  was  at  college,  and  he  found  himself 
in  a  position  to  be  able  to  help  a  friend.  He  did  not  know 
to  what  extent  aid  might  be  of  service  ;  but  he  had  some 
means  of  his  own,  and  he  asked  that  Gordon  would  allow 
him  to  make  him  a  loan  of  whatever  might  be  necessary 
to  relieve  his  father  and  himself. 

When  Gordon  finished  reading  the  letter  there  were 
tears  in  his  eyes. 

He  laid  the  letter  in  his  father's  lap,  and  the  old  gentle 
man  read  it  through  slowly.  He  sat  lost  in  reflection 
for  a  few  moments  and  then  handed  the  letter  back  to 
Gordon. 

"Write  to  him  and  thank  him,  my  son— thank  him 
warmly  for  both  of  us.  I  will  never  forget  his  kindness. 
He  is  a  gentleman." 

53 


GORDON   KEITH 

This  was  all  j  but  he  too  showed  in  his  face  that  that 
far-off  shaft  of  light  had  reached  his  heart  and  rested 
there. 

The  General  afterwards  meditated  deeply  as  to  the  wis 
dom  of  this  action.  Just  then,  however,  Providence  seemed 
to  come  to  his  aid. 

Old  Adam  Rawson,  hearing  that  he  was  hard  up,  or 
moved  by  some  kindly  impulse,  offered  to  make  him  a 
loan.  He  "happened  to  have,"  he  wrote,  "  a  little  pile  ly 
ing  by  that  he  didn't  have  any  particular  use  for  just  then, 
and  it  had  come  to  him  that,  maybe,  the  General  might  be 
able  to  use  it  to  advantage.  He  didn't  care  anything  about 
security  or  interest." 

The  General  was  perplexed.  He  did  not  need  it 
himself,  but  he  was  glad  to  borrow  enough  to  send  Gor 
don  to  college  for  a  year.  He  sent  Gordon  up  to  old 
Rawson's  with  a  letter. 

The  old  man  read  the  letter  and  then  looked  Gordon 
over ;  he  read  it  and  looked  him  over  again,  much  as  if  he 
were  appraising  a  young  steer. 

"Well,  I  didn't  say  I'd  lend  it  to  you,"  he  said ;  "but, 
maybe,  I'll  do  it  if  'twill  help  the  General.  Investin'  in 
a  young  man  is  kind  of  hazardous ;  it's  like  puttin'  your 
money  in  a  harry-dick — you  don't  know  what  he's  goin'  to 
be.  All  you  has  to  go  on  is  the  frame  and  your  jedgmeiit." 

Fortunately  for  Keith,  the  old  cattle-dealer  had  a  good 
opinion  of  his  "jedgment."  He  went  on  :  "But  I  admit 
blood  counts  for  somethin',  and  I'm  half  minded  to  adven 
ture  some  on  your  blood." 

Gordon  laughed.  He  would  be  glad  to  be  tried  on  any 
account,  he  said,  and  would  certainly  repay  the  money. 

"Well,  I  b'lieve  you  will  if  you  can,"  said  the  squire. 
"And  that's  more  than  I  can  say  of  everybody.  I'll  invest 
a  leetle  money  in  your  future,  and  I  want  to  say  this  to 
you,  that  your  future  will  depend  on  whether  you  pay  it 
back  or  not.  I  never  seen  a  young  man  as  didn't  pay  his 
debts  come  to  any  good  in  my  life,  and  I  never  seen  one  as 

54 


TWO   YOUNG   MEN 

did  as  didn't.  I've  seen  many  a  man  'd  shoot  you  if  you 
dared  to  question  his  honor,  an'  wouldn't  pay  you  a  dollar 
if  he  was  lousy  with  'em."  He  took  out  his  wallet,  and  un 
tying  the  strings  carefully,  began  to  count  out  the  green 
backs. 

"I  have  to  carry  a  pretty  good  pile  to  buy  calves  with," 
he  chuckled ;  "but  I  reckon  you'll  be  a  fair  substitute  for 
one  or  two.  How  much  do  you  want?— I  mean,  how  little 
can  you  git  along  with  ?  " 

Gordon  told  him  the  amount  his  father  had  suggested. 
It  was  not  a  great  sum. 

"That  seems  a  heap  of  money  to  put  in  book-learnin'," 
said  the  old  man,  thoughtfully,  his  eyes  fixed  on  Gordon. 
"My  whole  edication  didn't  cost  twenty -five  dollars.  With 
all  that  learnin',  you'd  know  enough  to  teach  the  Ridge 
College." 

Gordon,  who  had  figured  it  out,  began  to  give  his  neces 
sary  expenses.  When  he  had  finished,  the  old  man  counted 
out  his  bills.  Gordon  said  he  would  give  him  his  note  for 
it,  and  his  father  would  indorse  it.  The  other  shook  his 
head. 

"No ;  I  don't  want  any  bond.  I'll  remember  it  and 
you'll  remember  it.  I've  known  too  many  men  think 
they'd  paid  a  debt  when  they'd  given  their  bond.  I 
don't  want  you  to  think  that.  If  you're  goin'  to  pay  me, 
you'll  do  it  without  a  bond,  and  if  you  ain't,  I  ain't  goin' 
to  sue  you ;  I'm  jest  goin'  to  think  what  a'  o'nery  cuss 
you  are." 

So  Gordon  returned  home,  and  a  few  weeks  later  was 
delving  deep  into  new  mysteries. 

Gordon's  college  life  may  be  passed  over.  He  worked 
well,  for  he  felt  that  it  was  necessary  to  work. 

Looking  around  when  he  left  college,  the  only  thing 
that  appeared  in  sight  for  Gordon  Keith  was  to  teach 
school.  To  be  sure,  the  business,  "the  universal  refuge  of 
educated  indigents,"  as  his  father  quoted  with  a  smile, 

55 


GOKDON   KEITH 

was  already  overcrowded.  But  Gordon  heard  of  a  school 
which  up  to  this  time  had  not  been  overwhelmed  with 
applicants.  There  was  a  vacancy  at  the  Kidge  College. 
Finally  poor  Gunn,  after  holding  out  as  long  as  he  could, 
had  laid  down  his  arms,  as  all  soldiers  must  do  sooner  or 
later,  and  Gordon  applied  for  the  position.  The  old  squire 
remembered  the  straight,  broad-shouldered  boy  with  his 
father's  eyes  and  also  remembered  the  debt  he  owed  him, 
and  with  the  vision  of  a  stern-faced  man  with  eyes  of 
flame  riding  quietly  at  the  head  of  his  men  across  a  shell- 
ploughed  field,  he  wrote  to  Gordon  to  come. 

"If  he's  got  half  of  his  daddy  in  him  he'll  straighten 
?em  out,"  he  said. 

So,  Gordon  became  a  school-teacher. 

"I  know  no  better  advice  to  give  you,"  said  General 
Keith  to  Gordon,  on  bidding  him  good-by,  "than  to  tell 
you  to  govern  yourself,  and  you  will  be  able  to  govern 
them.  ( He  that  is  slow  to  anger  is  better  than  the  mighty  ; 
and  he  that  ruleth  his  spirit  than  he  that  taketh  a  city.'  " 

During  the  years  in  which  Gordon  Keith  was  striving 
to  obtain  an  education  as  best  he  might,  Ferdy  Wicker- 
sham  had  gone  to  one  of  the  first  colleges  of  the  land.  It- 
was  the  same  college  which  Norman  Wentworth  was  at 
tending.  Indeed,  Norman's  being  there  was  the  main 
reason  that  Ferdy  was  sent  there.  Mr.  Wickersham  wished 
his  son  to  have  the  best  advantages.  Mrs.  Wickersham 
desired  this  too,  but  she  also  had  a  further  motive.  She 
wished  her  son  to  eclipse  Norman  Weutworth.  Both 
were  young  men  of  parts,  and  as  both  had  unlimited  means 
at  their  disposal,  neither  was  obliged  to  study. 

Norman  Wentworth,  however,  had  applied  himself  to 
secure  one  of  the  high  class-honors,  and  as  he  was  univer 
sally  respected  and  very  popular,  he  was  regarded  as  cer 
tain  to  have  it,  until  an  unexpected  claimant  suddenly 
appeared  as  a  rival. 

Ferdy  Wickersham  never  took  the  trouble  to  compete 
for  anything  until  he  discovered  that  some  one  else  valued 

56 


TWO  YOUNG   MEN 

it.  It  was  a  trait  he  had  inherited  from  his  mother,  who 
could  never  see  any  one  possessing  a  thing  without  covet 
ing  it. 

The  young  man  was  soon  known  at  college  as  one  of  the 
leaders  of  the  gay  set.  His  luxuriously  furnished  rooms, 
his  expensive  suppers  and  his  acquaintance  with  dancing- 
girls  were  talked  about,  and  he  soon  had  a  reputation  for 
being  one  of  the  wildest  youngsters  of  his  class. 

"Your  son  will  spend  all  the  money  you  can  make  for 
him,"  said  one  of  his  friends  to  Mr.  Wickersham. 

"Well,"  said  the  father,  "I  hope  he  will  have  as  much 
pleasure  in  spending  it  as  I  have  had  in  making  it,  that's 
all." 

He  not  only  gave  Ferdy  all  the  money  he  suggested  a 
need  for,  but  he  offered  him  large  bonuses  in  case  he 
should  secure  any  of  the  honors  he  had  heard  of  as  the 
prizes  of  the  collegiate  work. 

Mrs.  Wickersham  was  very  eager  for  him  to  win  this 
particular  prize.  Apart  from  her  natural  ambition,  she 
had  a  special  reason.  The  firm  of  Norman  Wentworth  & 
Son  was  one  of  the  oldest  and  best-known  houses  in  the 
country.  The  home  of  Norman  Wentworth  was  known  to 
be  one  of  the  most  elegant  in  the  city,  as  it  was  the  most 
exclusive,  and  both  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wentworth  were  recog 
nized  as  representatives  of  the  old-time  gentry.  Mrs. 
Wickersham  might  have  endured  the  praise  of  the  elegance 
of  the  mansion.  She  had  her  own  ideas  as  to  house-fur 
nishing,  and  the  Wentworth  mansion  was  furnished  in  a 
style  too  quiet  and  antiquated  to  suit  her  more  modern 
tastes.  If  it  was  filled  with  old  mahogany  and  hung 
with  damask-satin,  Mrs.  Wickersham  had  carved  walnut 
and  gorgeous  hangings.  And  as  to  those  white  marble 
busts,  and  those  books  that  were  everywhere,  she  much 
preferred  her  brilliant  figures  which  she  "had  bought  in 
Europe,"  and  books  were  "a  nuisance  about  a  house." 
They  ought  to  be  kept  in  a  library,  as  she  kept  hers— in 
a  carved-walnut  case  with  glass  doors. 

57 


GORDON   KEITH 

The  real  cause  of  Mrs.  Wickersham's  dislike  of  Mrs. 
Wentworth  lay  deeper. 

The  elder  lady  had  always  been  gracious  to  Mrs.  Wick- 
ersham  when  they  met,  as  she  was  gracious  to  every  one, 
and  when  a  very  large  entertainment  was  given  by  her, 
had  invited  Mrs.  Wickersham  to  it.  But  Mrs.  Wicker- 
sham  felt  that  Mrs.  Wentworth  lived  within  a  charmed 
circle.  And  Mrs.  Wickersham  was  envious. 

It  must  be  said  that  Ferdy  needed  no  instigation  to  su 
persede  Norman  in  any  way  that  did  not  require  too  much 
work.  He  and  Norman  were  very  good  friends  ;  certainly 
Norman  thought  so ;  but  at  bottom  Ferdy  was  envious  of 
Norman's  position  and  prestige,  and  deep  in  his  heart 
lurked  a  long-standing  grudge  against  the  older  boy,  to 
which  was  added  of  late  a  greater  one.  Norman  and  he 
fancied  the  same  girl,  and  Louise  Caldwell  was  beginning 
to  favor  Norman. 

Ferdy  announced  to  his  father  that  the  class-honor  would 
be  won  if  he  would  give  him  money  enough,  and  the  elder 
Wickersham,  delighted,  told  him  to  draw  on  him  for  all 
the  money  he  wanted.  This  Ferdy  did  promptly.  He  sud 
denly  gave  up  running  away  from  college,  applied  himself 
to  cultivating  the  acquaintance  of  his  fellow-students,  spent 
his  money  lavishly  in  entertainments,  and  for  a  time  it  ap 
peared  that  he  might  wrest  the  prize  from  Norman's  grasp. 

College  boys,  however,  are  a  curious  folk.  The  mind  of 
youth  is  virtuous.  It  is  later  on  in  life  that  it  becomes 
sordid.  Ferdy  wrote  his  father  that  he  had  the  prize,  and 
that  Norman,  his  only  rival,  had  given  up  the  fight.  Mrs. 
Wickersham  openly  boasted  of  her  son's  success  and  of 
her  motive,  and  sent  him  money  lavishly.  Young  Wick 
ersham's  ambition,  however,  like  that  of  many  another 
man,  o'erleaped  itself.  Wickersham  drew  about  him 
many  companions,  but  they  were  mainly  men  of  light 
weight,  roisterers  and  loafers,  whilst  the  better  class  of  his 
fellow-students  quickly  awoke  to  a  true  realization  of  the 
case.  A  new  element  was  being  introduced  into  college 

58 


TWO   YOUNG   MEN 

politics.  The  recognition  of  danger  was  enough  to  set  the 
best  element  in  the  college  to  meet  it.  At  the  moment 
when  Ferdy  Wickersham  felt  himself  victor,  and  aban 
doned  himself  to  fresh  pleasures,  a  new  and  irresistible 
force  unexpectedly  arose  which  changed  the  fate  of  the  day. 
Wickersham  tried  to  stem  the  current,  but  in  vain.  It  was 
a  tidal  wave.  Ferdy  Wickersham  faced  defeat,  and  he 
could  not  stand  it.  He  suddenly  abandoned  college,  and 
went  off,  it  was  said,  with  a  coryphee.  His  father  and 
mother  did  not  know  of  it  for  some  time  after  he  had  left. 

Mr.  Wickersham  received  the  first  intimation  of  it  in  the 
shape  of  a  draft  which  came  to  him  from  some  distant  point. 
When  Mrs.  Wickersham  learned  of  it,  she  fell  into  a  con 
suming  rage,  and  then  took  to  her  bed.  The  downfall  of 
her  hopes  and  of  her  ambition  had  come  through  the 
person  she  loved  best  on  earth.  Finally  she  became  so  ill 
that  Mr.  Wickersham  telegraphed  a  peremptory  order  to 
his  son  to  come  home,  and  after  a  reasonable  time  the 
young  man  appeared. 

His  mother's  joy  at  meeting  him  overshadowed  every 
thing  else  with  her,  and  the  prodigal  was  received  by  her 
with  that  forgiveness  which  is  both  the  weakness  and  the 
strength  of  a  mother's  heart.  The  father,  however,  had 
been  struck  as  deeply  as  the  mother.  His  ambition,  if  of 
a  different  kind,  had  been  quite  as  great  as  that  of  Mrs. 
Wickersham,  and  the  hard-headed,  keen-sighted  man,  who 
had  spent  his  life  fighting  his  way  to  the  front,  often  with 
little  consideration  for  the  rights  of  others,  felt  that  one  of 
his  motives  and  one  of  his  rewards  had  perished  together. 

The  interview  that  took  place  in  his  office  between  him 
and  his  son  was  one  which  left  its  visible  stamp  on  the 
older  man,  and  for  a  time  appeared  to  have  had  an  effect 
even  on  the  younger,  with  all  his  insolence  and  impervious 
selfishness.  When  Aaron  Wickersham  unlocked  his  pri 
vate  door  and  allowed  his  son  and  heir  to  go  out,  the 
clerks  in  the  outer  office  knew  by  the  young  man's  face, 
quite  as  well  as  by  the  rumbles  of  thunder  which  had  come 

59 


GOKDON   KEITH 

through  the  fast-closed  door,  that  the  "old  man  "  had  been 
giving  the  young  one  a  piece  of  his  mind. 

At  first  the  younger  man  had  been  inclined  to  rebel ;  but 
for  once  in  his  life  he  found  that  he  had  passed  the  limit 
of  license,  and  his  father,  whom  he  had  rather  despised  as 
foolishly  pliable,  was  unexpectedly  his  master.  He  laid 
before  Ferdy,  with  a  power  which  the  latter  could  not 
but  acknowledge,  the  selfishness  and  brutality  of  his  con 
duct  since  he  was  a  boy.  He  told  him  of  his  own  earlier 
privations,  of  his  labors,  of  his  ambitions. 

"I  have  worked  my  heart  out,"  he  said,  "for  your  mother 
and  for  you.  I  have  never  known  a  moment  of  rest  or  of 
what  you  call  '  fun.'  I  set  it  before  me  when  your  mother 
promised  to  marry  me  that  I  would  make  her  as  good  as 
the  first  lady  in  the  land— that  is,  in  New  York.  She 
should  have  as  big  a  house  and  as  fine  a  carriage  and  as 
handsome  frocks  as  any  one  of  them— as  old  Mrs.  Went- 
worth  or  old  Mrs.  Brooke  of  Brookford,  who  were  the 
biggest  people  I  ever  knew.  And  I  have  spent  my  life  for  it. 
I  have  grown  old  before  my  time.  I  have  gotten  so  that 
things  have  lost  their  taste  to  me  $  I  have  done  things  that  I 
never  dreamed  I  would  do  to  accomplish  it.  I  have  lost 
the  power  to  sleep  working  for  it,  and  when  you  came  I 
thought  I  would  have  my  reward  in  you.  I  have  not  only 
never  stinted  you,  but  I  have  lavished  money  on  you  as  if 
I  was  the  richest  man  in  New  York.  I  wanted  you  to 
have  advantages  that  I  never  had :  as  good  as  Norman 
Wentworth  or  any  one  else.  I  have  given  you  things,  and 
seen  you  throw  them  away,  that  I  would  have  crawled  on 
my  knees  from  my  old  home  to  this  office  to  get  when  I 
was  a  boy.  And  I  thought  you  were  going  to  be  my  pride 
and  my  stay  and  my  reward.  And  you  said  you  were  doing 
it,  and  your  mother  and  I  had  staked  our  hearts  on  you. 
And  all  the  time  you  were  running  away  and  lying  to  me 
and  to  her,  and  not  doing  one  honest  lick  of  work." 

The  young  man  interrupted  him.  "That  is  not  so,"  he 
said  surlily. 

His  father  pulled  out  a  drawer  and  took  from  it  a  letter. 

60 


TWO   YOUNG   MEN 

Spreading  it  open  on  his  desk,  he  laid  the  palm  of  his 
open  hand  on  it.  "Not  so?  I  have  got  the  proof  of  it 
here."  He  looked  at  the  young  man  with  level  eyes,  eyes 
in  which  was  such  a  cold  gleam  that  Ferdy's  gaze  fell. 

"I  did  not  expect  you  to  do  it  for  me,"  Aaron  Wickersham 
went  on  slowly,  never  taking  his  eyes  from  his  son's  face, 
"for  I  had  discovered  that  you  did  not  care  a  button  for  my 
wishes ;  but  I  did  think  you  would  do  it  for  your  mother. 
For  she  thought  you  were  a  god  and  worshipped  you.  She 
has  been  talking  for  ten  years  of  the  time  when  she  would  go 
to  see  you  come  out  at  the  head  of  your  class.  She  was  going 
to  Paris  to  get  the  clothes  to  wear  if  you  won,  and  you— 
His  voice  broke— "you  won't  even  graduate  !  What  will 
you  think  next  summer  when  Mrs.  Wentworth  is  there  to 
see  her  son,  and  all  the  other  men  and  women  I  know  who 
have  sons  who  graduate  there,  and  your  mother—  f  "  The 
father's  voice  broke  completely,  and  he  looked  away. 
Even  Ferdy  for  a  moment  seemed  grave  and  regretful. 
Then  after  a  glance  at  his  father  he  recovered  his  com 
posure. 

"I'm  not  to  blame,"  he  said  surlily,  "if  she  did.  It  was 
her  fault." 

Aaron  Wickersham  turned  on  him. 

"Stop,"  he  said  in  a  quiet  voice.  "Not  another  word. 
One  other  word,  and,  by  God  !  I'll  box  your  head  off  your 
shoulders.  Say  what  you  please  about  me,  but  not  one 
word  against  her.  I  will  take  you  from  college  and  put 
you  to  sweeping  the  floor  of  this  office  at  twenty  dollars  a 
month,  and  make  you  live  on  your  salary,  too,  or  'starve,  if 
you  say  one  other  word." 

Ferdy's  face  blanched  at  the  implacable  anger  that 
blazed  in  his  father's  eyes,  but  even  more  at  the  coldness  of 
the  gleam.  It  made  him  shiver. 

A  little  later  young  Wickersham  entered  his  father's 
office,  and  though  he  was  not  much  liked  by  the  older 
clerks,  it  soon  appeared  that  he  had  found  a  congenial  oc 
cupation  and  one  for  which  he  had  a  natural  gift.  For  the 
first  time  in  his  life  he  appeared  inclined  to  work. 

61 


CHAPTER  V 
THE  RIDGE  COLLEGE 

THE  school  over  which  Gordon  had  undertaken  to  pre 
side  was  not  a  very  advanced  seminary  of  learning, 
and  possibly  the  young  teacher  did  not  impart  to  his  pupils 
a  great  deal  of  erudition. 

His  predecessors  in  the  schoolmaster's  chair  had  been, 
like  their  patrons,  the  product  of  a  system  hardly  less 
conservative  than  that  of  the  Locrians.  Any  one  who  pro 
posed  an  innovation  would  have  done  so  with  a  rope  about 
his  neck,  and  woe  to  him  if  it  proved  unsuccessful. 

When  Gordon  reported  first  to  the  squire,  the  old  man 
was  manifestly  pleased. 

"Why,  you've  growed  considerable.  I  didn't  have  no 
idea  you'd  be  so  big  a  man."  He  measured  him  with 
satisfaction.  "You  must  be  nigh  as  big  as  your  pa." 

"I'm  broader  across  the  shoulders,  but  not  so  tall,"  said 
the  young  man. 

"He  is  a  pretty  tall  man,"  said  the  squire,  slowly,  with 
the  light  of  reflection  in  his  eye.  "You're  a-goin'  to  try 
the  Ridge  College,  are  you? "  He  had  a  quizzical  twinkle 
in  his  eye  as  it  rested  on  the  younger  man's  face. 

"I'm  going  to  try  it."  And  Gordon's  face  lit  up.  "I 
don't  know  much,  but  I'll  do  the  best  I  can." 

His  modesty  pleased  the  other. 

"You  know  more  than  Jake  Dennison,  I  reckon,  except 
about  devilment.  I  was  afred  you  mightn't  be  quite  up 
to  the  place  here  ;  you  was  rather  young  when  I  seen  you 

62 


THE   EIDGE   COLLEGE 

last.'7  He  measured  him  as  he  might  have  done  a  young 
bullock. 

"Oh,  I  fancy  I  shall  be,"  interrupted  the  young  man, 
flushing  at  the  suggestion. 

" You've  got  to  learn  them  Dennison  boys,  and  them 
Dennison  boys  is  pretty  hard  to  learn  anything.  You  will 
need  all  the  grit  you've  got." 

"Oh7  I'll  teach  them,"  asserted  Gordon,  confidently. 

The  old  man's  eye  rested  on  him. 

"  'Tain't  teachiri1  I'm  a-talkin'  about.  It's  learniri9  I'm 
tellin'  you  they  need.  You've  got  to  learn  'em  a  good 
deal,  or  they'll  learn  you.  Them  Dennison  boys  is  pretty 
slow  at  learnin'." 

The  young  man  intimated  that  he  thought  he  was  equal 
to  it. 

"Well,  we'll  see,"  grunted  the  old  fellow,  with  some 
thing  very  like  a  twinkle  in  his  deep  eyes.  "Not  as  they'll 
do  you  any  harm  without  you  undertake  to  interfere  with 
them,"  he  drawled.  "But  you're  pretty  young  to  manage 
'em  jest  so ;  you  ain't  quite  big  enough  either,  and  you're 
too  big  to  git  in  through  the  cat-hole.  And  I  allow  that 
you  don't  stand  no  particular  show  after  the  first  week  or 
so  of  gittin'  into  the  house  any  other  way." 

"I'll  get  in,  though,  and  I  won't  go  in  through  the  cat- 
hole  either.  I'll  promise  you  that,  if  you'll  sustain  me." 

"Oh,  I'll  sustain  you,"  drawled  the  squire.  "I'll  sustain 
you  in  anything  you  do,  except  to  pizon  'em  with  slow 
pizon,  and  I  ain't  altogether  sure  that  wouldn'  be  jest  man 
slaughter." 

"All  right."  Keith's  eyes  snapped,  and  presently,  as  the 
older  man's  gaze  rested  on  him,  his  snapped  also. 

So  the  compact  was  struck,  and  the  trustee  went  on  to 
give  further  information. 

"Your  hours  will  be  as  usual,"  said  he :  "from  seven  to 
two  and  fo'  to  six  in  summer,  and  half-past  seven  to  two 
and  three  to  five  in  winter,  and  you'll  find  all  the  books 
necessary  in  the  book-chist.  We  had  to  have  'em  locked 

63 


GORDON   KEITH 

up  to  keep  'em  away  from  the  rats  and  the  dirt-daubers. 
Some  of  'em's  right  smartly  de-faced,  but  I  reckon  you'll 
git  on  with  'em  all  right." 

"Well,  those  are  pretty  long  hours,"  said  Gordon. 
"Seems  to  me  they  had  better  be  shortened.  I  shall—" 

"Them's  the  usual  hours,"  interrupted  the  old  man, 
positively.  "I've  been  trustee  now  for  goin'  on  twenty- 
six  year,  an'  th'ain't  never  been  any  change  in  'em.  An' 
I  ain't  see  as  they've  ever  been  too  long— leastways,  I 
never  see  as  the  scholars  ever  learned  too  much  in  'em. 
They  ain't  no  longer  than  a  man  has  to  work  in  the  field, 
and  the  work's  easier." 

Gordon  looked  at  the  old  man  keenly.  It  was  his  first 
battle,  and  it  had  come  on  at  once,  as  his  father  had  warned 
him.  The  struggle  was  bitter,  if  brief,  but  he  conquered — 
conquered  himself.  The  old  countryman's  face  had 
hardened. 

"If  you  want  to  give  satisfaction  you'd  better  try  to 
learn  them  scholars  an'  not  the  trustees,"  he  said  dryly. 
"The  Dennison  boys  is  hard,  but  we're  harder." 

Gordon  looked  at  him  quickly.  His  eyes  were  resting  on 
him,  and  had  a  little  twinkle  in  them. 

"We're  a  little  like  the  old  fellow  'at  told  the  young 
preacher  'at  he'd  better  stick  to  abusin'  the  sins  of  Esau 
and  Jacob  and  David  and  Peter,  an'  let  the  sins  o'  that  con 
gregation  alone." 

"I'll  try  and  give  you  satisfaction,"  said  Keith. 

The  squire  appeared  pleased.  His  face  relaxed  and 
his  tone  changed. 

"  You  won't  have  no  trouble,"  he  said  good-humoredly. 
"Not  if  you're  like  your  father.  I  told  'em  you  was  his 
son,  an'  I'd  be  responsible  for  you." 

Gordon  Keith  looked  at  him  with  softened  eyes.  A 
mention  of  his  father  always  went  to  his  heart. 

"I'll  try  and  give  you  satisfaction,"  he  said  earnestly. 
"Will  you  do  me  a  favor?  " 

"Yes." 

64 


THE   RIDGE   COLLEGE 

"Will  you  come  over  to  the  examination  of  the  school 
when  it  opens,  and  then  let  me  try  the  experiment  of  run 
ning  it  my  way  for,  say,  two  months,  and  then  come  to  an 
other  examination?  Then  if  I  do  not  satisfy  you  I'll  do 
anything  you  say  ;  I'll  go  back  to  the  old  way." 

"Done,"  said  the  trustee,  cordially.  And  so,  Gordon 
Keith  won  another  victory,  and  started  the  school  under 
favorable  auspices. 

Adam  Rawson  asked  him  to  come  and  live  at  his  house. 
"You  might  give  Phrony  a  few  extra  lessons  to  fit  her  for 
a  bo'din' -school,"  he  said.  "I  want  her  to  have  the  best 
edvantages." 

Keith  soon  ingratiated  himself  further  with  the  old 
squire.  He  broke  his  young  horses  for  him,  drove  his 
wagon,  mended  his  vehicles,  and  was  ready  to  turn  his 
hand  to  anything  that  came  up  about  the  place. 

As  his  confidence  in  the  young  man  grew,  the  squire  let 
Keith  into  a  secret. 

"You  mind  when  you  come  up  here  with  that  young 
man  from  the  North,— that  engineer  fellow,— what  come 
a-runnin'  of  a  railroad  a-hellbulgin'  through  this  country, 
and  was  a-goin'  to  carry  off  all  the  coal  from  the  top  of 
the  Alleghanies  spang  down  to  Torment?  "  Keith  remem 
bered.  "Well,  he  was  right  persuasive,"  continued  the 
squire,  "and  I  thought  if  all  that  money  was  a-goin'  to  be 
made  and  them  railroads  had  to  come,  like  he  said,  jest  as 
certain  as  water  runnin'  down  a  hill,  I  might  as  well  git 
some  of  it.  I  had  a  little  slipe  or  two  up  there  before,  and 
havin'  a  little  money  from  my  cattle,  lumber,  and  sich,  I 
went  in  and  bought  a  few  slipes  more,  jest  to  kind  of  fill 
in  like,  and  Phrony's  growin'  up,  and  I'm  a-thinkin'  it  is 
about  time  to  let  the  railroads  come  in  ;  so,  if  you  kin  git 
your  young  man,  let  him  know  I've  kind  o'  changed  my 
mind." 

Miss  Euphronia  Tripper  had  grown  up  into  a  plump  and 
pretty  country  girl  of  fifteen  or  sixteen,  whose  rosy  cheeks, 

65 


GOKDON   KEITH 

flaxen  hair,  and  blue  eyes,  as  well  as  the  fact  that  she  was 
the  only  heiress  of  the  old  squire,  who  was  one  of  the  "best- 
fixed"  men  in  all  that  "country,"  made  her  quite  the  belle 
of  the  region.  She  had  already  made  a  deep  impression  on 
both  big  Jake  Dennison  and  his  younger  brother  Dave. 
Dave  was  secretly  in  love  with  her,  but  Jake  was  openly 
so,  a  condition  which  he  manifested  by  being  as  plainly  and 
as  hopelessly  bound  in  her  presence  as  a  bear  cub  tangled 
in  a  net.  For  her  benefit  he  would  show  feats  of  strength 
which  might  have  done  credit  to  a  boy-Hercules ;  but  let 
her  turn  on  him  the  glow  of  her  countenance,  and  he  was 
a  hopeless  mass  of  perspiring  idiocy. 

Keith  found  her  a  somewhat  difficult  pupil  to  deal  with. 
She  was  much  more  intent  on  making  an  impression  on 
him  than  on  progressing  in  her  studies. 

After  the  first  shyness  of  her  intercourse  with  the  young 
teacher  had  worn  off,  she  began  for  a  while  rather  to  make 
eyes  at  him,  which  if  Keith  ever  dreamed  of,  he  never 
gave  the  least  sign  of  it.  She,  therefore,  soon  abandoned 
the  useless  campaign,  and  for  a  time  held  him  in  mingled 
awe  and  disdain. 

The  Kidge  College  was  a  simple  log-building  of  a  single 
room,  with  a  small  porch  in  front,  built  of  hewn  logs  and 
plastered  inside. 

Gordon  Keith,  on  entering  on  his  new  duties,  found  his 
position  much  easier  than  he  had  been  led  to  expect. 

Whether  it  wp  .the  novelty  of  the  young  teacher's  quiet 
manner,  clear  eyes,  broad  shoulders,  and  assured  bearing, 
or  the  idea  of  the  examination  with  which  he  undertook 
to  begin  the  session,  he  had  a  week  of  surprising  quiet. 
The  school  filled  day  after  day,  and  even  the  noted  Den 
nison  boys,  from  Jacob  Dennison,  the  strapping  six-foot 
senior,  down  to  Dave,  who  was  the  youngest  and  smartest 
< !  the  three,  appeared  duly  every  morning,  and  treated  the 
young  teacher  with  reasonable  civility,  if  with  somewhat 
insolent  familiarity. 

The  day  of  the  examination  Squire  Eawson  attended, 

66 


THE   KIDGE   COLLEGE 

solemn  and  pompous  with  a  superfluity  of  white  shirt- 
front. 

Brief  as  was  the  examination,  it  revealed  to  Keith  an 
astonishing  state  of  ignorance  of  the  simplest  things.  It 
was  incredible  to  him  that,  with  so  many  hours  of  so-called 
study,  so  little  progress  had  been  made.  He  stated  this  in 
plain  language,  and  outlined  his  plan  for  shorter  hours  and 
closer  application.  A  voice  from  the  boys7  side  muttered 
that  the  owner  did  not  see  anything  the  matter  with  the 
old  hours.  They  were  good  enough  for  them.  Keith 
turned  quickly: 

"What  is  that?" 

There  was  no  answer. 

"What  is  that,  Dennison?  "  he  demanded.  "I  thought  I 
heard  you  speak." 

"Wall,  if  you  did,  I  warn't  speakin'  to  you,"  said  Jacob 
Dennison,  surlily. 

"Well,  when  you  speak  in  school,  address  yourself  to 
me,"  said  Keith.  He  caught  Euphronia  Tripper's  eyes 
on  him. 

"I  mought  an'  I  moughtn't,"  said  Jacob,  insolently. 

"I  propose  to  see  that  you  do." 

Jacob's  reply  was  something  between  a  grunt  and  a 
sneer,  and  the  school  rustled  with  a  sound  very  much  like 
applause. 

Next  morning,  on  his  arrival  at  school,  Keith  found  the 
door  fastened  on  the  inside.  A  titter  f  *om  within  re 
vealed  the  fact  that  it  was  no  accident,  and  the  guffaw  of 
derision  that  greeted  his  sharp  command  tftat  the  door 
should  be  opened  immediately  showed  that  the  Dennison 
boys  were  up  to  their  old  tricks. 

"Open  the  door,  Jake  Dennison,  instantly  ! "  he  called. 

The  reply  was  sung  through  the  keyhole  : 


"  *  Ole  Molly  hyah,  what  you  doin'  dyah? 
Settin'  in  de  cordner,  smokin'  a  ciggyah.'  " 

67 


GORDON   KEITH 

It  was  little  Dave's  voice,  and  was  followed  by  a  puff  of 
tobacco  smoke  through  the  keyhole  and  a  burst  of  laughter 
led  by  Phrony  Tripper. 

An  axe  was  lying  at  the  woodpile  near  by,  and  in  two 
minutes  the  door  was  lying  in  splinters  on  the  school-house 
floor,  and  Keith,  with  a  white  face  and  a  dangerous  tremble 
in  his  voice,  was  calling  the  amazed  school  to  order.  He 
heard  the  lessons  through,  and  at  noon,  the  hour  he  had 
named  the  day  before,  dismissed  all  the  younger  scholars. 
The  Dennisons  and  one  or  two  larger  boys  he  ordered  to 
remain.  As  the  scholars  filed  out,  there  was  a  colloquy 
between  Jacob  Dennison  and  his  younger  brother  Dave. 
Dave  had  the  brains  of  the  family,  and  he  was  whispering 
to  Jake.  Keith  moved  his  chair  and  seated  himself  near 
the  door.  There  was  a  brief  muttered  conversation  among 
the  Dennisons,  and  then  Jake  Dennison  rose,  put  on  his  hat 
slowly,  and,  addressing  the  other  boys,  announced  that  he 
didn't  know  what  they  were  going  to  do,  but  he  was 
"a-gwine  home  and  git  ready  to  go  and  see  the  dance  up 
at  Gates's." 

He  swaggered  toward  the  door,  the  others  following  in 
his  wake. 

Keith  rose  from  his  seat. 

"Go  back  to  your  places."  He  spoke  so  quietly  that  his 
voice  could  scarcely  be  heard. 

"Go  nowhere  !  You  go  to  h — 1 ! "  sneered  the  big  leader, 
contemptuously.  "'Tain't  no  use  for  you  to  try  to  stop 
me— I  kin  git  away  with  two  like  you." 

Perhaps,  he  could  have  done  so,  but  Keith  was  too  quick 
for  him.  He  seized  the  split-bottomed  chair  from  which 
he  had  risen,  and  whirling  it  high  above  his  head,  brought 
it  crashing  down  on  his  assailant,  laying  him  flat  on  the 
floor.  Then,  without  a  second's  hesitation,  he  sprang 
toward  the  others. 

"Into  your  seats  instantly ! "  he  shouted,  as  he  raised 
once  more  the  damaged,  but  still  formidable,  weapon.  By 
an  instinct  the  mutineers  fell  into  the  nearest  seats,  and 

68 


"If  you  don't  go  back  to  your  seat  I'll  dash  your  brains  out," 

said  Keith. 


THE   EIDGE   COLLEGE 

Keith  turned  back  to  his  first  opponent,  who  was  just  rising 
from  the  floor  with  a  dazed  look  on  his  face.  A  few  drops 
of  blood  were  trickling  down  his  forehead. 

"If  you  don't  go  to  your  seat  instantly,  I'll  dash  your 
brains  out,"  said  Keith,  looking  him  full  in  the  eye.  He 
still  grasped  the  chair,  and  as  he  tightened  his  grip  on  it, 
the  crestfallen  bully  sank  down  on  the  bench  and  broke 
into  a  whimper  about  a  grown  man  hitting  a  boy  with  a 
chair. 

Suddenly  Keith,  in  the  moment  of  victory,  found  himself 
attacked  in  the  rear.  One  of  the  smaller  boys,  who  had 
gone  out  with  the  rest,  hearing  the  fight,  had  rushed  back, 
and,  just  as  Keith  drove  Jake  Dennison  to  his  seat,  sprang 
on  him  like  a  little  wild-cat.  Turning,  Keith  seized  and 
held  him. 

"What  are  you  doing,  Dave  Dennison,  confound  you?" 
he  demanded  angrily. 

"I'm  one  of 'em,"  blubbered  the  boy,  trying  to  reach  him 
with  both  fist  and  foot.  "I  don't  let  nobody  hit  my 
brother." 

Keith  found  that  he  had  more  trouble  in  quelling  Dave, 
the  smallest  member  of  the  Dennison  tribe,  than  in  con 
quering  the  bigger  brothers. 

"Sit  down  and  behave  yourself,"  he  said,  shoving  him 
into  a  seat  and  holding  him  there.  "I'm  not  going  to  hit 
him  again  if  he  behaves  himself." 

Keith,  having  quieted  Dave,  looked  to  see  that  Jake  was 
not  much  hurt.  He  took  out  his  handkerchief. 

"Take  that  and  wipe  your  face  with  it,"  he  said  quietly, 
and  taking  from  his  desk  his  inkstand  and  some  writing- 
paper,  he  seated  himself  on  a  bench  near  the  door  and 
began  to  write  letters.  It  grew  late,  but  the  young  teacher 
did  not  move.  He  wrote  letter  after  letter.  It  began  to 
grow  dark ;  he  simply  lit  the  little  lamp  on  his  desk,  and 
taking  up  a  book,  settled  down  to  read ;  and  when  at  last 
he  rose  and  announced  that  the  culprits  might  go  home, 
the  wheezy  strains  of  the  three  instruments  that  composed 

69 


GORDON   KEITH 

the  band  at  Gates's  had  long  since  died  out,  and  Gordon 
Keith  was  undisputed  master  of  Ridge  College. 

His  letter  to  the  trustees  was  delivered  that  morning, 
saying  that  if  they  would  sustain  his  action  he  would  do 
his  best  to  make  the  school  the  best  in  that  section  ;  but  if 
not,  his  resignation  was  in  their  hands. 

"I  guess  he  is  the  sort  of  medicine  those  youngsters 
need,"  said  Dr.  Balsam.  "We'd  better  let  it  work." 

"I  reckon  he  can  ride  'em,"  said  Squire  Rawson. 

It  was  voted  to  sustain  him. 

The  fact  that  a  smooth-faced  boy,  not  as  heavy  as  Jake 
Dennison  by  twenty  pounds,  had  "faced  down"  and 
quelled  the  Dennisons  all  three  together,  and  kept  Jake 
Dennison  from  going  where  he  wanted  to  go,  struck  the 
humor  of  the  trustees,  and  they  stood  by  their  teacher  al 
most  unanimously,  and  even  voted  to  pay  for  a  new  door, 
which  he  had  offered  to  pay  for  himself,  as  he  said  he  might 
have  to  chop  it  down  again.  Not  that  there  was  not  some 
hostility  to  him  among  those  to  whom  his  methods  were 
too  novel ;  but  when  he  began  to  teach  his  pupils  boxing, 
and  showed  that  with  his  fists  he  was  more  than  a  match 
for  Jake  Dennison,  the  chief  opposition  to  him  died  out ; 
and  before  the  year  ended,  Jake  Dennison,  putting  into 
practice  the  art  he  had  learned  from  his  teacher,  had 
thrashed  Mr.  William  Bluffy,  the  cock  of  another  walk 
high  up  across  the  Ridge,  for  ridiculing  the  "newfangled 
foolishness  "  of  Ridge  College,  and  speaking  of  its  teacher 
as  a  "dom-fool  furriner."  Little  Dave  Dennison,  of  all 
those  opposed  to  him,  alone  held  out.  He  appeared  to  be 
proof  against  Keith's  utmost  efforts  to  be  friends. 

One  day,  however,  Dave  Dennison  did  not  come  to  school. 
Keith  learned  that  he  had  fallen  from  a  tree  and  broken 
his  leg— "gettin'  hawks'  eggs  for  Phrony,"  Keith's  infor 
mant  reported.  Phrony  was  quite  scornful  about  it,  but  a 
little  perky  as  well. 

"If  a  boy  was  such  a  fool  as  to  go  up  a  tree  when  he  had 
been  told  it  wouldn't  hold  him,  she  could  not  help  it.  She 

70 


THE   KIDGE   COLLEGE 

did  not  want  the  eggs,  anyhow,"  she  said  disdainfully. 
This  was  all  the  reward  that  little  Dave  got  for  his  devo 
tion  and  courage. 

That  afternoon  Keith  went  over  the  Kidge  to  see  Dave. 

The  Dennison  home  was  a  small  farm-house  back  of  the 
Kidge,  in  what  was  known  as  a  "cove,"  an  opening  in  the 
angle  between  the  mountains,  where  was  a  piece  of  level  or 
partly  level  ground  on  the  banks  of  one  of  the  little  moun 
tain  creeks.  When  Keith  arrived  he  found  Mrs.  Dennison, 
a  small,  angular  woman  with  sharp  eyes,  a  thin  nose,  and 
thin  lips,  very  stiff  and  suspicious.  She  had  never  forgiven 
Keith  for  his  victory  over  her  boys,  and  she  looked  now  as 
if  she  would  gladly  have  set  the  dogs  on  him  instead  of 
calling  them  off  as  she  did  when  he  strode  up  the  path  and 
the  yelping  pack  dashed  out  at  him. 

She  "didn'  know  how  Dave  was,"  she  said  glumly. 
"The  Doctor  said  he  was  better.  She  couldn'  see  no  change. 
Yes,  he  could  go  in,  she  s'posed,  if  he  wanted  to,"  she  said 
ungraciously. 

Keith  entered.  The  boy  was  lying  on  a  big  bed,  his 
head  resting  against  the  frame  of  the  little  opening  which 
went  for  a  window,  through  which  he  was  peeping  wist 
fully  out  at  the  outside  world  from  which  he  was  to  be 
shut  off  for  so  many  weary  weeks.  He  returned  Keith's 
greeting  in  the  half-surly  way  in  which  he  had  always  re 
ceived  his  advances  since  the  day  of  the  row  j  but  when 
Keith  sat  down  on  the  bed  and  began  to  talk  to  him 
cheerily  of  his  daring  in  climbing  where  no  one  else  had 
ventured  to  go,  he  thawed  out,  and  presently,  when  Keith 
drifted  on  to  other  stories  of  daring,  he  began  to  be  in 
terested,  and  after  a  time  grew  almost  friendly. 

He  was  afraid  they  might  have  to  cut  his  leg  off.  His 
mother,  who  always  took  a  gloomy  view  of  things,  had 
scared  him  by  telling  him  she  thought  it  might  have  to  be 
done ;  but  Keith  was  able  to  reassure  him.  The  Doctor 
had  told  him  that,  while  the  fracture  was  very  bad,  the  leg 
would  be  saved. 

71 


GORDON  KEITH 

"If  he  had  not  been  as  hard  as  a  lightwood  knot,  that 
fall  would  have  mashed  him  up,"  said  the  Doctor.  This 
compliment  Keith  repeated,  and  it  evidently  pleased  Dave. 
The  pale  face  relaxed  into  a  smile.  Keith  told  him  stories 
of  other  boys  who  had  had  similar  accidents  and  had  turned 
them  to  good  account— of  Arkwright  and  Sir  William 
Jones  and  Commodore  Maury,  all  of  whom  had  laid  the 
foundation  for  their  future  fame  when  they  were  in  bed 
with  broken  legs. 

When  Keith  came  away  he  left  the  boy  comforted  and 
cheered,  and  even  the  dismal  woman  at  the  door  gave  him 
a  more  civil  parting  than  her  greeting  had  been. 

Many  an  afternoon  during  the  boy's  convalescence  Keith 
went  over  the  Kidge  to  see  him,  taking  him  story-books, 
and  reading  to  him  until  he  was  strong  enough  to  read 
himself.  And  when,  weeks  later,  the  lame  boy  was  able 
to  return  to  school,  Keith  had  no  firmer  friend  in  all  the 
Ridge  region  than  Dave  Dennison,  and  Dave  had  made  a 
mental  progress  which,  perhaps,  he  would  not  have  made  in 
as  many  months  at  school,  for  he  had  received  an  impulse 
to  know  and  to  be  something  more  than  he  was.  He 
would  show  Phrony  who  he  was. 

It  was  fine  to  Gordon  to  feel  that  he  was  earning  his 
own  living.  He  was  already  making  his  way  in  the  world, 
and  often  from  this  first  rung  of  the  ladder  the  young 
teacher  looked  far  up  the  shining  steep  to  where  Fame  and 
Glory  beckoned  with  their  radiant  hands.  He  would  be 
known.  He  would  build  bridges  that  should  eclipse  Ste 
venson's.  He  would  be  like  Warren  Hastings,  and  buy 
back  the  home  of  his  fathers  and  be  a  great  gentleman. 

The  first  pay  that  he  received  made  him  a  capitalist. 
He  had  no  idea  before  of  the  joy  of  wealth.  He  paid  it  to 
old  Rawson. 

"There  is  the  first  return  for  your  investment,"  he  said. 

"I  don'  know  about  its  bein'  the  first  return,"  said  the 
squire,  slowly ;  "but  an  investment  ain't  done  till  it's  all 
returned."  His  keen  eyes  were  on  Keith's  face. 

72 


THE   KIDGE   COLLEGE 

"I  know  it,"  said  Keith,  laughing. 

But  for  Dr.  Balsam,  Keith  sometimes  thought  that  he 
must  have  died  that  first  winter,  and,  in  fact,  the  young 
man  did  owe  a  great  deal  to  the  tall,  slab-sided  man,  whose 
clothes  hung  on  him  so  loosely  that  he  appeared  in  the  dis 
tance  hardly  more  than  a  rack  to  support  them.  As  he 
came  nearer  he  was  a  simple  old  countryman  with  a  deeply 
graved  face  and  unkempt  air.  On  nearer  view  still,  you 
found  the  deep  gray  eyes  both  shrewd  and  kindly  j  the 
mouth  under  its  gray  moustache  had  fine  lines,  and  at 
times  a  lurking  smile,  which  yet  had  in  it  something  grave. 

To  Dr.  Balsam,  Keith  owed  a  great  deal  more  than  he 
himself  knew  at  the  time.  For  it  is  only  by  looking  back 
that  Youth  can  gauge  the  steps  by  which  it  has  climbed. 


73 


CHAPTER  VI 
ALICE  YOEKE 

IT  is  said  that  in  Brazil  a  small  stream  which  rises  under 
a  bank  in  a  gentleman's  garden,  after  flowing  a  little 
distance,  encounters  a  rock  and  divides  into  two  branches, 
one  of  which  flows  northward  and  empties  into  the  Amazon, 
whilst  the  other,  turning  to  the  southward,  pours  its  waters 
into  the  Rio  del  Plata.  A  very  small  obstruction  caused 
the  divergence  and  determined  the  course  of  those  two 
streams.  So  it  is  in  life. 

One  afternoon  in  the  early  Spring,  Gordon  Keith  was 
walking  home  from  school,  his  books  under  his  arm,  when, 
so  to  speak,  he  came  on  the  stone  that  turned  him  from 
his  smooth  channel  and  shaped  his  course  in  life. 

He  was  going  to  break  a  colt  for  Squire  Rawson  that 
afternoon,  so  he  was  hurrying  ;  but  ever  as  he  strode  along 
down  the  winding  road,  the  witchery  of  the  tender  green 
leaves  and  the  odors  of  Spring  filled  eyes  and  nostrils,  and 
called  to  his  spirit  with  that  subtle  voice  which  has  stirred 
Youth  since  Youth's  own  Spring  awoke  amid  the  leafy 
trees.  In  its  call  were  freedom,  and  the  charm  of  wide 
spaces,  and  the  unspoken  challenge  of  Youth  to  the  world, 
and  haunting  vague  memories,  and  whisperings  of  unut- 
tered  love,  and  all  that  makes  Youth  Youth. 

Presently  Gordon  became  aware  that  a  little  ahead  of 
him,  under  the  arching  boughs,  were  two  children  who  were 
hunting  for  something  in  the  road,  and  one  of  them  was 
crying.  At  the  same  moment  there  turned  the  curve  be- 

74 


ALICE  YOEKE 

yond  them,  coming  toward  him,  a  girl  on  horseback.  He 
watched  her  with  growing  interest  as  she  galloped  toward 
him,  for  he  saw  that  she  was  young  and  a  stranger.  Proba 
bly  she  was  from  "the  Springs,"  as  she  was  riding  one  of 
Gates's  horses  and  was  riding  him  hard. 

The  rider  drew  in  her  horse  and  stopped  as  she  came  up 
to  the  children.  Keith  heard  her  ask  what  was  the  mat 
ter  with  the  little  one,  and  the  older  child's  reply  that  she 
was  crying  because  she  had  lost  her  money.  "She  was 
goin'  to  buy  candy  with  it  at  the  store,  but  dropped  it." 

The  girl  sprang  from  her  horse. 

"Oh,  you  poor  little  thing !  Come  here,  you  dear  little 
kitten.  I'll  give  you  some  money.  Won't  you  hold  my 
horse  ?  He  won't  hurt  you."  This  to  the  elder  child. 

She  threw  herself  on  her  knees  in  the  road,  as  regardless 
of  the  dust  as  were  the  children,  and  drawing  the  sobbing 
child  close  to  her,  took  her  handkerchief  from  her  pocket 
and  gently  wiped  its  little,  dirty,  smeared  face,  and  began 
comforting  it  in  soothing  tones.  Keith  had  come  up  and 
stood  watching  her  with  quickening  breath.  All  he  could 
see  under  her  hat  was  an  oval  chin  and  the  dainty  curve 
of  a  pink  cheek  where  it  faded  into  snow,  and  at  the  back 
of  a  small  head  a  knot  of  brown  hair  resting  on  the  nape 
of  a  shapely  neck.  For  the  rest,  she  had  a  trim  figure  and 
wore  new  gloves  which  fitted  perfectly.  Keith  mentally 
decided  that  she  must  be  about  sixteen  or  seventeen  years 
old,  and,  from  the  glimpse  he  had  caught  of  her,  must  be 
pretty.  He  became  conscious  suddenly  that  he  had  on  his 
worst  suit  of  clothes. 

"Good  evening,"  he  said,  raising  his  hand  to  his  hat. 

The  girl  glanced  up  just  as  the  hat  was  lifted. 

"How  do  you  do?" 

Their  eyes  met,  and  the  color  surged  into  Keith's  face, 
and  the  hat  came  off  with  quite  a  flourish. 

Why,  she  was  beautiful !  Her  eyes  were  as  blue  as  wet 
violets. 

"I  will  help  you  hunt  for  it,"  he  said  half  guilefully, 

75 


GOKDON   KEITH 

half  kindly.     "Where  did  she  drop  it  ?  "     He  did  not  take 
his  eyes  from  the  picture  of  the  slim  figure  on  her  knees. 

"She  has  lost  her  money,  poor  little  dear !  She  was  on 
her  way  to  the  store  to  buy  candy,  and  lost  all  her  money." 

At  this  fresh  recital  of  her  loss,  the  little,  smeared  face 
began  to  pucker  again.  But  the  girl  cleared  it  with  a  kiss. 

"There,  don't  cry.  I  will  give  you  some.  How  much 
was  it?  A  nickel!  A  whole  nickel!"  This  with  the 
sweetest  smile.  "Well,  you  shall  have  a  quarter,  and  that's 
four  nickels  —I  mean  five." 

"She  is  not  strong  on  arithmetic,"  said  Keith  to  himself. 
"She  is  like  Phrony  in  that." 

She  began  to  feel  about  her  skirt,  and  her  face  changed. 

"Oh,  I  haven't  a  cent.  I  have  left  my  purse  at  the 
hotel."  This  was  to  Keith. 

"Let  me  give  it  to  her."  And  he  also  began  to  feel  in 
his  pocket,  but  as  he  did  so  his  countenance  fell.  He,  too, 
had  not  a  cent. 

"I  have  left  my  purse  at  home,  too,"  he  said.  "We 
shall  have  to  do  like  the  woman  in  the  Bible,  and  sweep 
diligently  till  we  find  the  money  she  lost." 

"We  are  a  pauper  lot,"  said  Alice  Yorke,  with  a  little 
laugh.  Then,  as  she  glanced  into  the  child's  big  eyes  that 
were  beginning  to  be  troubled  again,  she  paused.  The 
next  second  she  drew  a  small  bracelet  from  her  wrist,  and 
began  to  pull  at  a  small  gold  charm.  "Here,  you  shall  have 
this  ;  this  is  gold." 

"Oh,  don't  do  that,"  said  Keith.  "She  wouldn't  appre 
ciate  it,  and  it  is  a  pity  to  spoil  your  bracelet." 

She  glanced  up  at  him  with  a  little  flash  in  her  blue  eyes, 
as  a  vigorous  twist  broke  the  little  gold  piece  from  its 
chain. 

"She  shall  have  it.  There,  see  how  she  is  smiling.  I 
have  enjoyed  it,  and  I  am  glad  to  have  you  have  it.  Now, 
you  can  get  your  candy.  Now,  kiss  me." 

Somehow,  the  phrase  and  the  tone  brought  back  to  Keith 
a  hill-top  overlooking  an  English  village,  and  a  blue  lake 

76 


ALICE   YORKE 

below,  set  like  a  mirror  among  the  green  hills.  A  little 
girl  in  white,  with  brown  eyes,  was  handing  a  doll  to  an 
other  child  even  more  grimy  than  this  one.  The  reminis 
cence  came  to  him  like  a  picture  thrown  by  a  magic  lantern. 

The  child,  without  taking  her  eyes  from  the  tiny  bit  of 
metal,  put  up  her  little  mouth,  and  the  girl  kissed  her, 
only  to  have  the  kiss  wiped  off  with  the  chubby,  dirty 
little  hand. 

The  next  moment  the  two  little  ones  started  down  the 
road,  their  heads  close  together  over  the  bit  of  yellow  gold. 
Then  it  was  that  Alice  Yorke  for  the  first  time  took  a  real 
look  at  Keith,— a  look  provoked  by  the  casual  glance  she 
had  had  of  him  but  a  moment  before,— and  as  she  did  so  the 
color  stole  up  into  her  cheeks,  as  she  thought  of  the  way  in 
which  she  had  j  ust  addressed  him.  But  for  his  plain  clothes 
he  looked  quite  a  gentleman.  He  had  a  really  good  figure  ; 
straight,  broad  shoulders,  and  fine  eyes. 

"  Can  you  tell  me  what  time  it  is  t "  she  asked,  falteringly. 
"I  left  my  watch  at  the  hotel." 

"  I  haven't  a  watch  ;  but  I  think  it  must  be  about  four 
o'clock— it  was  half- past  three  when  I  left  school,  by  the 
school  clock  ;  I  am  not  sure  it  was  just  right." 

"Thank  you."  She  looked  at  her  horse.  "I  must  get 
back  to  the  hotel.  Can  you—  ?  " 

Keith  forestalled  her. 

"May  I  help  you  up? " 

"Thanks.     Do  you  know  how  to  mount  me?" 

"I  think  so,"  he  said  airily,  and  stepped  up  close  to 
her,  to  lift  her  by  the  elbows  to  her  saddle.  She  put  out  a 
foot  clad  in  a  very  pretty,  neat  shoe.  She  evidently  ex 
pected  Keith  to  let  her  step  into  his  hand.  He  knew  of 
this  mode  of  helping  a  lady  up,  but  he  had  never  tried  it. 
And,  though  he  stooped  and  held  his  hand  as  if  quite  ac 
customed  to  it,  he  was  awkward  about  it,  and  did  not  lift 
her ;  so  she  did  not  get  up. 

"I  don't  think  you  can  do  it  that  way,"  said  the  girl. 

"I  don't  think  so  either,"  said  Keith.  "I  must  learn  it. 

77 


GORDON  KEITH 

But  I  know  how  to  do  it  this  way."  He  caught  her  by 
both  elbows.  "Now  jump  ! " 

Taken  by  surprise  she  gave  a  little  spring,  and  he  lifted 
her  like  a  feather,  and  seated  her  in  her  saddle. 

As  she  rode  away,  he  stood  aside  and  lifted  his  hat  with 
an  air  that  surprised  her.  Also,  as  she  rode  away,  he  re 
marked  that  she  sat  her  horse  very  well  and  had  a  very 
straight,  slim  figure  ;  but  the  picture  of  her  kneeling  in  the 
dust,  with  her  arm  around  the  little  sobbing  child,  was 
what  he  dwelt  on. 

Just  as  she  disappeared,  a  redbird  in  its  gorgeous  uniform 
flitted  dipping  across  the  road,  and,  taking  his  place  in  a 
bush,  began  to  sing  imperiously  for  his  mate. 

"Ah,  you  lucky  rascal,"  thought  Keith,  "you  don't  get 
caught  by  a  pretty  girl,  in  a  ragged  coat.  You  have  your 
best  clothes  on  every  day.'7 

Next  second,  as  the  bird's  rich  notes  rang  out,  a  deeper 
feeling  came  to  him,  and  a  wave  of  dissatisfaction  with  his 
life  swept  over  him.  He  suddenly  seemed  lonelier  than 
he  had  been.  Then  the  picture  of  the  girl  on  her  knees 
came  back  to  him,  and  his  heart  softened  toward  her. 
He  determined  to  see  her  again.  Perhaps,  Dr.  Balsam 
knew  her  ? 

As  the  young  girl  rode  back  to  the  hotel  she  had  her 
reward  in  a  pleasant  sensation.  She  had  done  a  good 
deed  in  helping  to  console  a  little  child,  and  no  kindness 
ever  goes  without  this  reward.  Besides,  she  had  met  a 
young,  strange  man,  a  country  boy,  it  was  true,  and 
very  plainly  dressed,  but  with  the  manner  and  tone 
of  a  gentleman,  quite  good-looking,  and  very  strong. 
Strength,  mere  physical  strength,  appeals  to  all  girls  at 
certain  ages,  and  Miss  Alice  Yorke's  thoughts  quite  soft 
ened  toward  the  stranger.  Why,  he  as  good  as  picked 
her  up !  He  must  be  as  strong  as  Norman  Wentworth, 
who  stroked  his  crew.  She  recalled  with  approval  his 
good  shoulders. 

She  would  ask  the  old  Doctor  who  he  was.  He  was  a 

78 


ALICE  YORKE 

pleasant  old  man,  and  though  her  mother  and  Mrs.  Nailor, 
another  New  York  lady,  did  not  like  the  idea  of  his  being 
the  only  doctor  at  the  Springs,  he  had  been  very  nice  to 
her.  He  had  seen  her  sitting  on  the  ground  the  day  be 
fore  and  had  given  her  his  buggy-robe  to  sit  on,  saying, 
with  a  smile,  "You  must  not  sit  on  the  wet  ground,  or 
you  may  fall  into  my  hands." 

"I  might  do  worse,"  she  had  said.  And  he  had  looked 
at  her  with  his  deep  eyes  twinkling. 

"Ah,  you  young  minx  !  When  do  you  begin  flattering? 
And  at  what  age  do  you  let  men  off  ?  " 

When  Miss  Alice  Yorke  arrived  at  the  hotel  she  found 
her  mother  and  Mrs.  Nailor  engaged  in  an  animated  con 
versation  on  the  porch. 

The  girl  told  of  the  little  child  she  had  found  crying  in 
the  road,  and  gave  a  humorous  account  of  the  young 
countryman  trying  to  put  her  on  her  horse. 

"He  was  very  good-looking,  too,"  she  declared  gayly. 
"I  think  he  must  be  studying  for  the  ministry,  like  Mr. 
Eimmon,  for  he  quoted  the  Bible." 

Both  Mrs.  Yorke  and  Mrs.  Nailor  thought  it  rather  im 
proper  for  her  to  be  riding  alone  on  the  public  roads. 

The  next  day  Keith  put  on  his  best  suit  of  clothes  when 
he  went  to  school,  and  that  afternoon  he  walked  home 
around  the  Ridge,  as  he  had  done  the  day  before,  thinking 
that  possibly  he  might  meet  the  girl  again,  but  he  was 
disappointed.  The  following  afternoon  he  determined  to 
go  over  to  the  Springs  and  see  if  she  was  still  there  and 
find  out  who  she  was.  Accordingly,  he  left  the  main  road, 
which  ran  around  the  base  of  the  Ridge,  and  took  a  foot 
path  which  led  winding  up  through  the  woods  over  the 
Ridge.  It  was  a  path  that  Gordon  often  chose  when  he 
wanted  to  be  alone.  The  way  was  steep  and  rocky,  and  was 
so  little  used  that  often  he  never  met  any  one  from  the  time 
he  plunged  into  the  woods  until  he  emerged  from  them  on 
the  other  side  of  the  Ridge.  In  some  places  the  pines 
were  so  thick  that  it  was  always  twilight  among  them  ;  in 

79 


GOKDON   KEITH 

others  they  rose  high  and  stately  in  the  full  majesty  of 
primeval  growth,  keeping  at  a  distance  from  each  other, 
as  though,  like  another  growth,  the  higher  they  got 
the  more  distant  they  wished  to  hold  all  others.  Trees 
have  so  much  in  common  with  men,  it  is  no  wonder 
that  the  ancients,  who  lived  closer  to  both  than  we  do  now 
adays,  fabled  that  minds  of  men  sometimes  inhabited  their 
trunks. 

Gordon  Keith  was  in  a  particularly  gloomy  frame  of 
mind  on  this  day.  He  had  been  trying  to  inspire  in  his 
pupils  some  conception  of  the  poetry  contained  in  history. 
He  told  them  the  story  of  Hannibal— his  aim,  his  strug 
gles,  his  conquest.  As  he  told  it  the  written  record  took 
life,  and  he  marched  and  fought  and  lived  with  the  great 
Carthaginian  captain— lived  for  conquest. 

"Beyond  the  Alps  lies  Italy."  He  had  read  the  tale 
with  lips  that  quivered  with  feeling,  but  as  he  looked  up 
at  his  little  audience,  he  met  only  listless  eyes  and  dull 
faces.  A  big  boy  was  preparing  a  pin  to  evoke  from  a 
smaller  neighbor  the  attention  he  himself  was  withholding. 
The  neighbor  was  Dave  Dennison.  Dave  was  of  late  act 
ually  trying  to  learn  something.  Dave  was  the  only  boy 
who  was  listening.  A  little  girl  with  a  lisp  was  trying  in 
vain  to  divide  her  attention  between  the  story  and  an  im 
prisoned  fly  the  boy  next  her  was  torturing,  whilst  Phrony 
was  reading  a  novel  on  the  sly.  The  others  were  all  engaged 
in  any  other  occupation  than  thinking  of  Hannibal  or  lis 
tening  to  the  reader. 

Gordon  had  shut  the  book  in  a  fit  of  disappointment 
and  disgust  and  dismissed  the  school,  and  now  he  was  try 
ing  with  very  poor  success  to  justify  himself  for  his  out 
break  of  impatience.  His  failure  spoiled  the  pleasure  he 
had  anticipated  in  going  to  the  Springs  to  find  out  who 
the  Madonna  of  the  Dust  was. 

At  a  spot  high  up  on  the  rocky  backbone,  one  could  see 
for  a  long  way  between  the  great  brownish-gray  trunks,  and 
Gordon  turned  out  of  the  dim  path  to  walk  on  the  thick 
brown  carpet  of  pine-needles.  It  was  a  favorite  spot  with 

80 


ALICE   YORKE 

Gordon,  and  here  he  read  Keats  and  Poe  and  other  poets 
of  melancholy,  so  dear  to  a  young  man's  heart. 

Beyond  the  pines  at  their  eastern  edge,  a  great  crag 
jutted  forth  in  a  sort  of  shoulder,  a  vast  flying-buttress 
that  supported  the  pine-clad  Ridge  above— a  mighty  stone 
Atlas  carrying  the  hills  on  its  shoulder.  From  this  rock 
one  looked  out  eastward  over  the  rolling  country  below  to 
where,  far  beyond  sloping  hills  covered  with  forest,  it 
merged  into  a  soft  blue  that  faded  away  into  the  sky  itself. 
In  that  misty  space  lay  everything  that  Gordon  Keith  had 
known  and  loved  in  the  past.  Off  there  to  the  eastward 
was  his  old  home,  with  its  wide  fields,  its  deep  memories. 
There  his  forefathers  had  lived  for  generations  and  had 
been  the  leaders,  making  their  name  always  the  same  with 
that  of  gentleman. 

Farther  away,  beyond  that  dim  line  lay  the  great  world, 
the  world  of  which  he  had  had  as  a  boy  a  single  glimpse 
and  which  he  would  yet  conquer. 

Keith  had  climbed  to  the  crest  of  the  Ridge  and  was 
making  his  way  through  the  great  pines  to  the  point 
where  the  crag  jutted  out  sheer  and  massive,  overlooking 
the  reaches  of  rolling  country  below,  when  he  lifted  his 
eyes,  and  just  above  him,  half  seated,  half  reclining 
against  a  ledge  of  rock,  was  the  very  girl  he  had  seen 
two  days  before.  Her  eyes  were  closed,  and  her  face 
was  so  white  that  the  thought  sprang  into  Keith's  mind 
that  she  was  dead,  and  his  heart  leaped  into  his  throat. 
At  the  distance  of  a  few  yards  he  stopped  and  scanned  her 
closely.  She  had  on  a  riding-habit ;  her  hat  had  fallen  on 
her  neck ;  her  dark  hair,  loosened,  lay  about  her  throat, 
increasing  the  deep  pallor  of  her  face.  Keith's  pity  changed 
into  sorrow.  Suddenly,  as  he  leaned  forward,  his  heart 
filled  with  a  vague  grief,  she  opened  her  eyes —as  blue  as 
he  remembered  them,  but  now  misty  and  dull.  She  did 
not  stir  or  speak,  but  gazed  at  him  fixedly  for  a  little 
space,  and  then  the  eyes  closed  again  wearily,  her  head 
dropped  over  to  the  side,  and  she  began  to  sink  down. 

Gordon  sprang  forward  to  keep  her  from  rolling  down 

81 


GOKDON   KEITH 

the  bank.  As  he  gently  caught  and  eased  her  down  on 
the  soft  carpeting  of  pine-needles,  he  observed  how  delicate 
her  features  were ;  the  blue  veins  showed  clearly  on  her 
temples  and  the  side  of  her  throat,  and  her  face  had  that 
refinement  that  unconsciousness  often  gives. 

Gordon  knew  that  the  best  thing  to  do  was  to  lower  her 
head  and  unfasten  her  collar.  As  he  loosened  the  collar,  the 
whiteness  of  her  throat  struck  him  almost  dazzlingly. 
Instinctively  he  took  the  little  crumpled  handkerchief 
that  lay  on  the  pine  carpet  beside  her,  and  spread  it  over 
her  throat  reverently.  He  lifted  her  limp  hand  gently 
and  felt  her  little  wrist  for  her  pulse. 

Just  then  her  eyelids  quivered  ;  her  lips  moved  slightly, 
stopped,  moved  again  with  a  faint  sigh ;  and  then  her 
eyelids  opened  slowly,  and  again  those  blue  eyes  gazed  up 
at  him  with  a  vague  inquiry. 

The  next  second  she  appeared  to  recover  consciousness. 
She  drew  a  long,  deep  breath,  as  though  she  were  return 
ing  from  some  unknown  deep,  and  a  faint  little  color  flick 
ered  in  her  cheek. 

"Oh,  it's  you?"  she  said,  recognizing  him.  "How  do 
you  do  f  I  think  I  must  have  hurt  myself  when  I  fell.  I 
tried  to  ride  my  horse  down  the  bank,  and  he  slipped  and 
fell  with  me,  and  I  do  not  remember  much  after  that. 
He  must  have  run  away.  I  tried  to  walk,  but— but  I  am 
better  now.  Could  you  catch  my  horse  for  me?  " 

Keith  rose  and  followed  the  horse's  track  for  some  dis 
tance  along  the  little  path.  When  he  returned,  the  girl 
was  still  seated  against  the  rock. 

"Did  you  see  him  ?  "  she  asked  languidly,  sitting  up. 

"I  am  afraid  that  he  has  gone  home.  He  was  galloping. 
I  could  tell  from  his  tracks." 

"I  think  I  can  walk.     I  must." 

She  tried  to  rise,  but,  with  the  pain  caused  by  the  effort, 
the  blood  sprang  to  her  cheek  for  a  second  and  then  fled 
back  to  her  heart,  and  she  sank  back,  her  teeth  catching 
her  lip  sharply  to  keep  down  an  expression  of  anguish. 

82 


ALICE  YOKKE 

"I  must  get  back.  If  my  horse  should  reach  the  hotel 
without  me,  my  mother  will  be  dreadfully  alarmed.  I 
promised  her  to  be  back  by— 

Gordon  did  not  hear  what  the  hour  was,  for  she  turned 
away  her  face  and  began  to  cry  quietly.  She  tried  to 
brush  the  tears  away  with  her  fingers  5  but  one  or  two 
slipped  past  and  dropped  on  her  dress.  With  face  still 
averted,  she  began  to  feel  about  her  dress  for  her  handker 
chief  5  but  being  unable  to  find  it,  she  gave  it  up. 

There  was  something  about  her  crying  so  quietly  that 
touched  the  young  man  very  curiously.  She  seemed  sud 
denly  much  younger,  quite  like  a  little  girl,  and  he  felt 
like  kissing  her  to  comfort  her.  He  did  the  next  thing. 

"Don't  cry,"  he  said  gently.  "Here,  take  mine."  He 
pressed  his  handkerchief  on  her.  He  blessed  Heaven  that 
it  was  uncrumpled. 

Now  there  is  something  about  one's  lending  another  a 
handkerchief  that  goes  far  toward  breaking  down  the  bar 
riers  of  conventionality  and  bridges  years.  Keith  in  a 
moment  had  come  to  feel  a  friendliness  for  the  girl  that  he 
might  not  have  felt  in  years,  and  he  began  to  soothe  her. 

"I  don't  know  what  is  the  matter— with  me,"  she  said, 
as  she  dried  her  eyes.  "I  am  not— usually  so— weak 
and  foolish.  I  was  only  afraid  my  mother  would  think 
something  had  happened  to  me— and  she  has  not  been 
very  well."  She  made  a  brave.effort  to  command  herself, 
and  sat  up  very  straight.  "There.  Thank  you  very 
much."  She  handed  him  his  handkerchief  almost  grimly. 
"Now  I  am  all  right.  But  I  am  afraid  I  cannot  walk.  I 
tried,  but—.  You  will  have  to  go  and  get  me  a  carriage, 
if  you  please." 

Keith  rose  and  began  to  gather  up  his  books  and  stuff 
them  in  his  pockets. 

"No  carriage  can  get  up  here ;  the  pines  are  too  thick 
below,  and  there  is  no  road ;  but  I  will  carry  you  down  to 
where  a  vehicle  can  come,  and  then  get  you  one." 

She  took  a  glance  at  his  spare  figure.  "You  cannot  carry 

83 


GORDON   KEITH 

me ;  you  are  not  strong  enough.  I  want  you  to  get  me  a 
carriage  or  a  wagon,  please.  You  can  go  to  the  hotel. 
We  are  stopping  at  the  Springs." 

By  this  time  Gordon  had  forced  the  books  into  his 
pocket,  and  he  squared  himself  before  her. 

"Now,"  he  said,  without  heeding  her  protest ;  and  lean 
ing  down,  he  slipped  his  arms  under  her  and  lifted  her  as 
tenderly  and  as  easily  as  if  she  had  been  a  little  girl. 

As  he  bore  her  along,  the  pain  subsided,  and  she  found 
opportunity  to  take  a  good  look  at  his  face.  His  profile 
was  clean-cut  j  the  mouth  was  pleasant  and  curved  slightly 
upward,  but,  under  the  weight  he  was  carrying,  was  so 
close  shut  as  to  bring  out  the  chin  boldly.  The  cheek 
bones  were  rather  high  j  the  gray  eyes  were  wide  open  and 
full  of  light.  And  as  he  advanced,  walking  with  easy 
strides  where  the  path  was  smooth,  picking  his  way  care 
fully  where  it  was  rough,  the  color  rose  under  the  deep 
tan  of  his  cheeks. 

She  was  the  first  to  break  the  silence.  She  had  been 
watching  the  rising  color  in  his  face,  the  dilation  of  his 
nostrils,  and  feeling  the  quickening  rise  and  fall  of  his  chest. 

"Put  me  down  now  and  rest ;  you  are  tired." 

"I  am  not  tired."  He  trudged  on.  He  would  show  her 
that  if  he  had  not  been  able  to  mount  her  on  her  horse,  at 
least  it  was  not  from  lack  of  strength. 

"Please  put  me  down  ;  it  pains  me,"  she  said  guilefully. 

He  stopped  instantly,  and  selecting  a  clear  place,  seated 
her  softly. 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  I  was  a  brute,  thinking  only  of 
myself." 

He  seated  himself  near  her,  and  stole  a  glance  at  her  face. 
Their  eyes  met,  and  he  looked  away.  He  thought  her 
quite  beautiful. 

To  break  the  silence,  she  asked,  a  little  tone  of  politeness 
coming  into  her  voice :  "May  I  inquire  what  your  name 
is?  I  am  Miss  Yorke— Miss  Alice  Yorke,"  she  added,  in 
tending  to  make  him  feel  at  ease. 

84 


ALICE   YORKE 

•'Gordon  Keith  is  my  name.  Where  are  you  from?" 
His  manner  was  again  perfectly  easy. 

"From  New  York." 

"I  thought  you  were." 

She  fancied  that  a  little  change  came  over  his  face  and 
into  his  manner,  and  she  resented  it.  She  looked  down 
the  hill.  Without  a  word  he  rose  and  started  to  lift  her 
again.  She  made  a  gesture  of  dissent.  But  before  she 
could  object  further,  he  had  lifted  her  again,  and,  with 
steady  eyes  bent  on  the  stony  path,  was  picking  his  way 
down  the  steep  hill. 

"I  am  dreadfully  sorry,"  he  said  kindly,  as  she  gave  a 
start  over  a  little  twinge.  "It  is  the  only  way  to  get 
down.  No  vehicle  could  get  up  here  at  present,  unless  it 
were  some  kind  of  a  flying  chariot  like  Elijah's.  It  is 
only  a  little  farther  now." 

What  a  pleasant  voice  he  had !  Every  atom  of  pride 
and  protection  in  his  soul  was  enlisted. 

When  they  reached  the  road,  the  young  lady  wanted  Gor 
don  to  go  off  and  procure  a  vehicle  at  the  hotel.  But  he 
said  he  could  not  leave  her  alone  by  the  roadside  ;  he  would 
carry  her  on  to  a  house  only  a  little  way  around  the  bend. 

"Why,  I  can  carry  a  sack  of  salt,"  he  said,  with  boyish 
pride,  standing  before  her  very  straight  and  looking  down 
on  her  with  frank  eyes. 

Her  eyes  flashed  in  dudgeon  over  the  comparison. 

"A  girl  is  very  different  from  a  sack  of  salt." 

"Not  always— Lot's  wife,  for  instance.  If  you  keep  on 
looking  back,  you  don't  know  what  may  happen  to  you. 
Come  on." 

Just  then  a  vehicle  rapidly  driven  was  heard  in  the  dis 
tance,  and  the  next  moment  it  appeared  in  sight. 

"There  comes  mamma  now,"  said  the  girl,  waving  to  the 
lady  in  it. 

Mrs.  Yorke  sprang  from  the  carriage  as  soon  as  it  drew 
up.  She  was  a  handsome  woman  of  middle  age  and  was  richly 
dressed.  She  was  now  in  a  panic  of  motherly  solicitude. 

85 


GORDON  KEITH 

"Oh,  Alice,  how  you  have  frightened  me ! "  she  ex 
claimed.  "You  were  due  at  the  hotel  two  hours  ago,  and 
when  your  horse  came  without  you  !  You  will  kill  me  !  " 
She  clapped  her  hands  to  her  heart  and  panted.  "You 
know  my  heart  is  weak  !  " 

Alice  protested  her  sorrow,  and  Keith  put  in  a  word  for 
her,  declaring  that  she  had  been  dreadfully  troubled  lest 
the  horse  should  frighten  her. 

"And  well  she  might  be,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Yorke,  giving 
him  a  bare  glance  and  then  turning  back  to  her  daughter. 
"Mrs.  Nailor  was  the  first  who  heard  your  horse  had  come 
home.  She  ran  and  told  me.  And,  oh,  I  was  so  fright 
ened  !  She  was  sure  you  were  killed." 

"You  might  be  sure  she  would  be  the  first  to  hear  and 
tell  you,"  said  the  girl.  "Why,  mamma,  one  always  sprains 
one's  knee  when  one's  horse  falls.  That  is  part  of  the 
programme.  This— gentleman  happened  to  come  along, 
and  helped  me  down  to  the  road,  and  we  were  just  discuss 
ing  whether  I  should  go  on  farther  when  you  came  up. 
Mother,  this  is  Mr.  Keith." 

Keith  bowed.  He  was  for  some  reason  pleased  that  she 
did  not  say  anything  of  the  way  in  which  he  had  brought 
her  down  the  Ridge. 

Mrs.  Yorke  turned  and  thanked  him  with  graciousness, 
possibly  with  a  little  condescension.  He  was  conscious 
that  she  gave  him  a  sweeping  glance,  and  was  sorry  his 
shoes  were  so  old.  But  Mrs.  Yorke  took  no  further  notice 
of  him. 

"Oh,  what  will  your  father  say  !  You  know  he  wanted 
us  to  go  to  California;  but  you  would  come  South.  After 
Mr.  Wickersham  told  you  of  his  place,  nothing  else  would 
satisfy  you." 

"Oh,  papa  !     You  know  I  can  settle  him,"  said  the  girl. 

Mrs.  Yorke  began  to  lament  the  wretchedness  of  a 
region  where  there  was  no  doctor  of  reputation. 

"There  is  a  very  fine  surgeon  in  the  village.  Dr.  Balsam 
is  one  of  the  best  surgeons  anywhere,"  said  Keith. 

86 


ALICE   YORKE 

"Oh,  I  know  that  old  man.  No  doubt,  he  is  good 
enough  for  little  common  ailments,"  said  Mrs.  Yorke,  "but 
in  a  case  like  this  !  What  does  he  know  about  surgery  1 " 
She  turned  back  to  her  daughter.  "I  shall  telegraph  your 
father  to  send  Dr.  Pilbury  down  at  once." 

Keith  flushed  at  her  manner. 

"A  good  many  people  have  to  trust  their  lives  to  him," 
he  said  coldly.  "And  he  has  had  about  as  much  surgical 
practice  as  most  men.  He  was  in  the  army." 

The  girl  began  again  to  belittle  her  injury. 

It  was  nothing,  absolutely  nothing,  she  declared. 

"And  besides,"  she  said,  "I  know  the  Doctor.  I  met  him 
the  other  day.  He  is  a  dear  old  man."  She  ended  by  ad 
dressing  Keith. 

"One  of  the  best,"  said  Keith,  warmly. 

"Well,  we  must  get  you  into  the  vehicle  and  take  you 
home  immediately,"  said  her  mother.  "Can  you  help  put 
my  daughter  into  the  carriage  f  "  Mrs.  Yorke  looked  at 
the  driver,  a  stolid  colored  man,  who  was  surly  over  having 
had  to  drive  his  horses  so  hard. 

Before  the  man  could  answer,  Gordon  stepped  forward, 
and,  stooping,  lifted  the  girl,  and  quietly  put  her  up  into 
the  vehicle.  She  simply  smiled  and  said,  "Thank  you," 
quite  as  if  she  were  accustomed  to  being  lifted  into  car 
riages  by  strange  young  men  whom  she  had  just  met  on 
the  roadside. 

Mrs.  Yorke' s  eyes  opened  wide. 

"How  strong  you  must  be!"  she  exclaimed,  with  a 
woman's  admiration  for  physical  strength. 

Keith  bowed,  and,  with  a  flush  mounting  to  his  cheeks, 
backed  a  little  away. 

"Oh,  he  has  often  lifted  sacks  of  salt,"  said  the  girl,  half 
turning  her  eyes  on  Keith  with  a  gleam  of  satisfaction  in 
them. 

Mrs.  Yorke  looked  at  her  in  astonishment. 

"Why,  Alice!"  she  exclaimed  reprovingly  under  her 
breath. 

87 


GORDON   KEITH 

"He  told  me  so  himself/7  asserted  the  girl,  defiantly. 

"I  may  have  to  do  so  again/'  said  Keith,  dryly. 

Mrs.  Yorke's  hand  went  toward  the  region  of  her  pocket, 
but  uncertainly  5  for  she  was  not  quite  sure  what  he  was. 
His  face  and  air  belied  his  shabby  dress.  A  closer  look 
than  she  had  given  him  caused  her  to  stop  with  a  start. 

"Mr.— ah—  ?"  After  trying  to  recall  the  name,  she 
gave  it  up.  "I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you  for  your 
kindness  to  my  daughter,"  she  began.  "I  do  not  know  how 
I  can  compensate  you ;  but  if  you  will  come  to  the  hotel 
sometime  to-morrow— any  time— perhaps,  there  is  some 
thing— ?  Can  you  come  to  the  hotel  to-morrow?"  Her 
tone  was  condescending. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Keith,  quietly.  "I  am  afraid  I  cannot 
go  to  the  village  to-morrow.  I  have  already  been  more 
than  compensated  in  being  able  to  render  a  service  to  a 
lady.  I  have  a  school,  and  I  make  it  a  rule  never  to  go 
anywhere  except  Friday  evening  or  Saturday."  He  lifted 
his  hat  and  backed  away. 

As  they  drove  away  the  girl  said,  "Thank  you"  and 
"Good-by,"  very  sweetly. 

"Who  is  he,  Alice?    What  is  he?"  asked  her  mother. 

"I  don't  know.     Mr.  Keith.     He  is  a  gentleman." 

As  Gordon  stood  by  the  roadside  and  saw  the  carriage 
disappear  in  a  haze  of  dust,  he  was  oppressed  with  a  curi 
ous  sense  of  loneliness.  The  isolation  of  his  position  seemed 
to  strike  him  all  on  a  sudden.  That  stout,  full-voiced 
woman,  with  her  rich  clothes,  had  interposed  between  him 
and  the  rest  of  his  kind.  She  had  treated  him  condescend 
ingly.  He  would  show  her  some  day  who  he  was.  But 
her  daughter  !  He  went  off  into  a  revery. 

He  turned,  and  made  his  way  slowly  and  musingly  in 
the  direction  of  his  home. 

A  new  force  had  suddenly  come  into  his  life,  a  new  land 
had  opened  before  him.  One  young  girl  had  effected  it. 
His  school  suddenly  became  a  prison.  His  field  was  the 
world. 

88 


ALICE  YORKE 

As  lie  passed  along,  scarcely  conscious  of  where  he  was, 
he  met  the  very  man  of  all  others  he  would  rather  have 
met— Dr.  Balsam.  He  instantly  informed  the  Doctor  of 
the  accident,  and  suggested  that  he  had  better  hurry  on  to 
the  Springs. 

"A  pretty  girl,  with  blue  eyes  and  brown  hair?" 
inquired  the  Doctor. 

"Yes."     The  color  stole  into  Gordon's  cheeks. 

"With  a  silly  woman  for  a  mother,  who  is  always  talk 
ing  about  her  heart  and  pats  you  on  the  back  ?  " 

"I  don't  know.     Yes,  I  think  so." 

"I  know  her.  Is  the  limb  broken?"  he  asked  with 
interest. 

"No,  I  do  not  think  it  is ;  but  badly  sprained.  She 
fainted  from  the  pain,  I  think." 

"You  say  it  occurred  up  on  the  Ridge? " 

"Yes,  near  the  big  pines— at  the  summit." 

"Why,  how  did  she  get  down?  There  is  no  road."  He 
was  gazing  up  at  the  pine-clad  spur  above  them. 

"I  helped  her  down."     A  little  color  flushed  into  his  face. 

"Ah  !     You  supported  her?     She  can  walk  on  it?" 

"Ur— no.  I  brought  her  down.  I  had  to  bring  her. 
She  could  not  walk— not  a  step." 

"Oh  !  ah  !  I  see.     I'll  hurry  on  and  see  how  she  is." 

As  he  rode  off  he  gave  a  grunt. 

"Humph  ! "  It  might  have  meant  any  one  of  several 
things.  Perhaps,  what  it  did  mean  was  that "  Youth  is  the 
same  the  world  over,  and  here  is  a  chance  for  this  boy  to 
make  a  fool  of  himself,  and  he  will  probably  do  it,  as  I  did." 
As  the  Doctor  jogged  on  over  the  rocky  road,  his  brow  was 
knit  in  deep  reflection ;  but  his  thoughts  were  far  away 
among  other  pines  on  the  Piscataqua.  That  boy's  face  had 
turned  the  dial  back  nearly  forty  years. 


89 


CHAPTER  VII 
MRS.   YORKE   FINDS   A   GENTLEMAN 

WHEN  Mrs.  Yorke  arrived  at  the  hotel,  Dr.  Balsam 
was  nowhere  to  be  found.  She  was  just  sending  off  a 
messenger  to  despatch  a  telegram  to  the  nearest  city  for  a 
surgeon,  when  she  saw  the  Doctor  coming  up  the  hill 
toward  the  hotel  at  a  rapid  pace. 

He  tied  his  horse,  and,  with  his  saddle-pockets  over  his 
arm,  came  striding  up  the  walk.  There  was  something  reas 
suring  in  the  quick,  firm  step  with  which  he  came  toward 
her.  She  had  not  given  him  credit  for  so  much  energy. 

Mrs.  Yorke  led  the  way  toward  her  rooms,  giving  a 
somewhat  highly  colored  description  of  the  accident,  the 
Doctor  following  without  a  word,  taking  off  his  gloves  as 
he  walked.  They  reached  the  door,  and  Mrs.  Yorke  flung 
it  open  with  a  flurry. 

"Here  he  is  at  last,  my  poor  child  ! "  she  exclaimed. 

The  sight  of  Alice  lying  on  a  lounge  quite  effaced  Mrs. 
Yorke  from  the  Doctor's  mind.  The  next  second  he  had 
taken  the  girl's  hand,  and  holding  it  with  a  touch  that 
would  not  have  crumpled  a  butterfly's  wings,  he  was  tak 
ing  a  flitting  gauge  of  her  pulse.  Mrs.  Yorke  continued  to 
talk  volubly,  but  the  Doctor  took  no  heed  of  her. 

"A  little  rest  with  fixation,  madam,  is  all  that  is  neces 
sary,"  he  said  quietly,  at  length,  when  he  had  made  an 
examination.  "But  it  must  be  rest,  entire  rest  of  limb  and 
body— and  mind,"  he  added  after  a  pause.  "Will  you  ask 

90 


MRS.   YORKE   FINDS   A   GENTLEMAN 

Mrs.  Gates  to  send  me  a  kettle  of  hot  water  as  soon  as 
possible  ?  " 

Mrs.  Yorke  had  never  been  so  completely  ignored  by 
any  physician.  She  tossed  her  head,  but  she  went  to  get 
the  water. 

"So  my  young  man  Keith  found  you  and  brought  you 
down  the  Ridge  I "  said  the  Doctor  presently  to  the  girl. 

"Yes  ;  how  do  you  know?  "  she  asked,  her  blue  eyes  wide 
open  with  surprise. 

"Never  mind ;  I  may  tell  you  next  time  I  come,  if  you 
get  well  quickly,"  he  said  smiling. 

"Who  is  he?  "she  asked. 

"He  is  the  teacher  of  the  school  over  the  Ridge— what 
is  known  as  the  Ridge  College,"  said  the  Doctor,  with  a 
smile. 

Just  at  this  moment  Mrs.  Yorke  bustled  in. 

"Alice,  I  thought  the  Doctor  said  you  were  not  to  talk." 

The  Doctor's  face  wore  an  amused  expression. 

"Well,  just  one  more  question,"  said  the  girl  to  him. 
"How  much  does  a  sack  of  salt  weigh?  " 

"About  two  hundred  pounds.     To  be  accurate,—" 

"No  wonder  he  said  I  was  light,"  laughed  the  girl. 

"Who  is  a  young  man  named  Keith— a  school-boy,  who 
lives  about  here  f  "  inquired  Mrs.  Yorke,  suddenly. 

"The  Keiths  do  not  live  about  here,"  said  the  Doctor. 
"Gordon  Keith,  to  whom  you  doubtless  refer,  is  the  son  of 
General  Keith,  who  lives  in  an  adjoining  county  below  the 
Ridge.  His  father  was  our  minister  during  the  war—" 

At  this  moment  the  conversation  was  interrupted  by  the 
appearance  of  Mrs.  Gates  with  the  desired  kettle  of  hot 
water,  and  the  Doctor,  stopping  in  the  midst  of  his  sen 
tence,  devoted  all  of  his  attention  to  his  patient. 

The  confidence  which  he  displayed  and  the  deftness  with 
which  he  worked  impressed  Mrs.  Yorke  so  much  that  when 
he  was  through  she  said  :  "Doctor,  I  have  been  wondering 
how  a  man  like  you  could  be  content  to  settle  down  in  this 
mountain  wilderness.  I  know  many  fashionable  physicians 

91 


GORDON   KEITH 

in  cities  who  could  not  have  done  for  Alice  a  bit  better 
than  you  have  done— indeed,  nothing  like  so  well— with 
such  simple  appliances." 

Dr.  Balsam's  eyes  rested  on  her  gravely.  "Well, 
madam,  we  could  not  all  be  city  doctors.  These  few  sheep 
in  the  wilderness  need  a  little  shepherding  when  they  get 
sick.  You  must  reflect  also  that  if  we  all  went  away  there 
would  be  no  one  to  look  after  the  city  people  when  they 
come  to  our  mountain  wilderness  ;  they,  at  least,  need  good 
attendance." 

By  the  time  Gordon  awoke  next  morning  he  had  deter 
mined  that  he  would  see  his  new  acquaintance  again.  He 
must  see  her ;  he  would  not  allow  her  to  go  out  of  his  life 
so ;  she  should,  at  least,  know  who  he  was,  and  Mrs.  Yorke 
should  know,  too. 

That  afternoon,  impelled  by  some  strange  motive,  he  took 
the  path  over  the  Kidge  again.  It  had  been  a  long  day 
and  a  wearing  one.  He  had  tried  Hannibal  once  more ; 
but  his  pupils  cared  less  for  Hannibal  than  for  the  bumble 
bees  droning  in  the  window-frame.  For  some  reason  the 
dull  routine  of  lessons  had  been  duller  than  usual.  The 
scholars  had  never  been  so  stupid.  Again  and  again  the 
face  that  he  had  seen  rest  on  his  arm  the  day  before  came 
between  him  and  his  page,  and  when  the  eyes  opened  they 
were  as  blue  as  forget-me-nots.  He  would  rouse  himself 
with  a  start  and  plunge  back  bravely  into  the  mysteries  of 
physical  geography  or  of  compound  fractions,  only  to  find 
himself,  at  the  first  quiet  moment,  picking  his  way  through 
the  pines  with  that  white  face  resting  against  his  shoulder. 

When  school  was  out  he  declined  the  invitation  of  the 
boys  to  walk  with  them,  and  settled  himself  in  his  chair  as 
though  he  meant  to  prepare  the  lessons  for  the  next  day. 
After  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  spent  mostly  in  revery,  he  rose, 
put  up  his  books,  closed  the  door,  and  took  the  same  path 
he  had  followed  the  day  before.  As  he  neared  the  spot 
where  he  had  come  on  the  girl,  he  almost  expected  to 
find  her  propped  against  the  rock  as  he  had  found  her  the 

92 


MRS.   YORKE   FINDS  A   GENTLEMAN 

afternoon  before.  He  was  conscious  of  a  distinct  shock  of 
loneliness  that  she  was  not  there.  The  woods  had  never 
appeared  so  empty ;  the  soughing  of  the  pines  had  never 
sounded  so  dreary. 

He  threw  himself  down  on  the  thick  brown  carpet.  He 
had  not  felt  so  lonely  in  years.  What  was  he  !  And  what 
chance  did  he  have  !  He  was  alone  in  the  wilderness.  He 
had  been  priding  himself  on  being  the  superior  of  those 
around  him,  and  that  strange  woman  had  treated  him  with 
condescension,  when  he  had  strained  his  heart  out  to  get 
her  daughter  to  the  road  safely  and  without  pain. 

His  eyes  rested  on  the  level,  pale  line  of  the  horizon  far 
below  him.  Down  there  lay  all  he  had  ever  known  and 
loved.  All  was  changed ;  his  home  belonged  to  an  alien. 
He  turned  his  face  away.  On  the  other  side,  the  distant 
mountains  lay  a  mighty  rampart  across  the  sky.  He 
wondered  if  the  Alps  could  be  higher  or  more  beauti 
ful.  A  line  he  had  been  explaining  the  day  before  to  his 
scholars  recurred  to  him :  "Beyond  those  mountains  lies 
Italy." 

Gradually  it  came  to  him  that  he  was  duller  than  his 
scholars.  Those  who  were  the  true  leaders  of  men  sur 
mounted  difficulties.  Others  had  crossed  the  mountains  to 
find  the  Italy  of  their  ambition.  Why  should  not  he  ?  The 
thought  strung  him  up  sharply,  and  before  he  knew  it  he 
was  standing  upright,  his  face  lifted  to  the  sky,  his  nerves 
tense,  his  pulses  beating,  and  his  breath  coming  quickly. 
Beyond  that  blue  rim  lay  the  world.  He  would  conquer 
and  achieve  honors  and  fame,  and  win  back  his  old  home, 
and  build  up  again  his  fortune,  and  do  honor  to  his  name. 
He  seized  his  books,  and,  with  one  more  look  at  the  heights 
beyond,  turned  and  strode  swiftly  along  the  path. 

It  was,  perhaps,  fortunate  that  the  day  had  been  a  dull 
one  for  both  Mrs.  Yorke  and  Alice.  Alice  had  been  con 
fined  to  her  lounge,  and  after  the  first  anxiety  was  over 
Mrs.  Yorke  had  been  inclined  to  scold  her  for  her  care 
lessness  and  the  fright  she  had  given  her.  They  had  not 

93 


GOKDON  KEITH 

agreed  about  a  number  of  matters.  Alice  had  been  talking 
about  her  adventure  until  Mrs.  Yorke  had  begun  to  criti 
cise  her  rescuer  as  "  a  spindling  country  boy." 

"He  was  strong  enough  to  bring  me  down  the  mountain 
a  mile  in  his  arms,"  declared  the  girl.  "He  said  it  was 
half  a  mile,  but  I  am  sure  it  was  a  mile." 

Mrs.  Yorke  was  shocked,  and  charged  Alice  with  being 
susceptible  enough  to  like  all  men. 

"All  those  who  are  strong  and  good-looking/7  protested 
Alice. 

Their  little  difference  had  now  been  made  up,  and  Alice, 
who  had  been  sitting  silent,  with  a  look  of  serious  reflec 
tion  on  her  face,  said  : 

"Mamma,  why  don't  you  invite  him  over  to  dinner1? " 

Mrs.  Yorke  gave  an  exclamation  of  surprise. 

"Why,  Alice,  we  know  nothing  about  him." 

But  the  girl  was  insistent. 

"Why,  mamma,  I  am  sure  he  is  a  gentleman.  Dr.  Balsam 
said  he  was  one  of  the  best  people  about  here,  and  his 
father  was  a  clergyman.  Besides,  he  is  very  interesting. 
His  father  was  in  the  war  ;  I  believe  he  was  a  general." 

Mrs.  Yorke  pondered  a  moment,  her  pen  in  the  air.  Her 
thoughts  flew  to  New  York  and  her  acquaintances  there. 
Their  view  was  her  gauge. 

"Well,"  she  said  doubtfully,  "perhaps,  later  I  will ;  there 
is  no  one  here  whom  we  know  except  Mrs.  Nailor.  I 
have  heard  that  the  people  are  very  interesting  if  you  can 
get  at  them.  I'll  invite  him  first  to  luncheon  Saturday, 
and  see  how  he  is." 

It  is,  doubtless,  just  as  well  that  none  of  us  has  the  magic 
mirror  which  we  used  to  read  of  in  our  childhood,  which 
showed  what  any  one  we  wished  to  know  about  was  doing. 
It  would,  no  doubt,  cause  many  perplexities  from  which, 
in  our  ignorance,  we  are  happily  free.  Had  Gordon 
Keith  known  the  terms  on  which  he  was  invited  to  take  a 
meal  in  the  presence  of  Mrs.  Yorke,  he  would  have  been 

94 


MKS.  YOEKE   FINDS   A   GENTLEMAN 

incensed.  He  had  been  fuming  about  her  condescension 
ever  since  he  had  met  her ;  yet  he  no  sooner  received  her 
polite  note  than  he  was  in  the  best  humor  possible.  He 
brushed  up  his  well-worn  clothes,  treated  himself  to  a  new 
necktie,  which  he  had  been  saving  all  the  session,  and  just 
at  the  appointed  hour  presented  himself  with  a  face  so 
alight  with  expectancy,  and  a  manner  which,  while  en 
tirely  modest,  was  so  natural  and  easy,  that  Mrs.  Yorke  was 
astonished.  She  could  scarcely  credit  the  fact  that  this 
bright-eyed  young  man,  with  his  fine  nose,  firm  chin,  and 
melodious  voice,  was  the  same  with  the  dusty,  hot-faced, 
dishevelled-looking  country  boy  to  whom  she  had  thought 
of  offering  money  for  a  kindness  two  days  before. 

When  Keith  first  entered  the  room  Alice  Yorke  was 
seated  in  a  reclining-chair,  enveloped  in  soft  white,  from 
which  she  gave  him  a  smiling  greeting.  For  years  after 
wards,  whenever  Gordon  Keith  thought  of  beauty  it  was  of 
a  girl  smiling  up  at  him  out  of  a  cloud  of  white.  It  was  a 
charming  visit  for  him,  and  he  reproached  himself  for 
his  hard  thoughts  about  Mrs.  Yorke.  He  aired  all  of  his 
knowledge,  and  made  such  a  favorable  impression  on  the 
good  lady  that  she  became  very  friendly  with  him.  He 
did  not  know  that  Mrs.  Yorke's  kindness  to  him  was  con 
descension,  and  her  cordiality  inspired  as  much  by  curiosity 
as  courtesy. 

"Dr.  Balsam  has  been  telling  us  about  you,  Mr.  Keith," 
said  Mrs.  Yorke,  with  a  bow  which  brought  a  pleased  smile 
to  the  young  man's  face. 

"He  has?  The  Doctor  has  always  been  good  to  me.  I 
am  afraid  he  has  a  higher  opinion  of  me  than  I  deserve," 
he  said,  with  a  boy's  pretended  modesty,  whilst  his  eyes 
strongly  belied  his  words. 

Mrs.  Yorke  assured  him  that  such  could  not  be  the  case. 

"Don't  you  want  to  know  what  he  said?"  asked  Miss 
Alice,  with  a  bell-like  laugh. 

"Yes;  what?"  he  smiled. 

95 


GORDON  KEITH 

"He  said  if  you  undertook  to  carry  a  bag  of  salt  down  a 
mountain,  or  up  it  either,  you  would  never  rest  until  you 
got  there.'7 

Her  eyes  twinkled,  and  Gordon  appeared  half  teased, 
though  he  was  inwardly  pleased. 

Mrs.  Yorke  looked  shocked. 

"Oh,  Alice,  Dr.  Balsam  did  not  say  that,  for  I  heard 
him  ! "  she  exclaimed  reprovingly.  "Dr.  Balsam  was  very 
complimentary  to  you,  Mr.  Keith,"  she  explained  seriously. 
"He  said  your  people  were  among  the  best  families  about 
here."  She  meant  to  be  gracious ;  but  Gordon's  face 
flushed  in  spite  of  himself.  The  condescension  was  too 
apparent. 

"Your  father  was  a  pre— a— a— clergyman?"  said  Mrs. 
Yorke,  who  had  started  to  say  "preacher,"  but  substituted 
the  other  word  as  more  complimentary. 

"My  father  a  clergyman !  No'm.  He  is  good  enough 
to  be  one ;  but  he  was  a  planter  and  a— a— soldier,"  said 
Gordon. 

Mrs.  Yorke  looked  at  her  daughter  in  some  mystification. 
Could  this  be  the  wrong  man  f 

"Why,  he  said  he  was  a  clergyman?"  she  insisted. 

Gordon  gazed  at  the  girl  in  bewilderment. 

"Yes ;  he  said  he  was  a  minister,"  she  replied  to  his  un 
spoken  inquiry. 

Gordon  broke  into  a  laugh. 

"Oh,  he  was  a  special  envoy  to  England  after  he  was 
wounded." 

The  announcement  had  a  distinct  effect  upon  Mrs.  Yorke, 
who  instantly  became  much  more  cordial  to  Gordon.  She 
took  a  closer  look  at  him  than  she  had  given  herself  the 
trouble  to  take  before,  and  discovered,  under  the  sunburn 
and  worn  clothes,  something  more  than  she  had  formerly 
observed.  The  young  man's  expression  had  changed.  A 
reference  to  his  father  always  sobered  him  and  kindled  a 
light  in  his  eyes.  It  was  the  first  time  Mrs.  Yorke  had 
taken  in  what  her  daughter  meant  by  calling  him  handsome. 

96 


MRS.   YORKE   FINDS  A   GENTLEMAN 

"Why,  he  is  quite  distinguished-looking ! »  she  thought 
to  herself.  And  she  reflected  what  a  pity  it  was  that  so 
good-looking  a  young  man  should  have  been  planted  down 
there  in  that  out-of-the-way  pocket  of  the  world,  and  thus 
lost  to  society.  She  did  not  know  that  the  kindling  eyes 
opposite  her  were  burning  with  a  resolve  that  not  only 
Mrs.  Yorke,  but  the  world,  should  know  him,  and  that  she 
should  recognize  his  superiority. 


97 


CHAPTER  VIII 
MR.  KEITH'S    IDEALS 

A  FTER  this  it  was  astonishing  how  many  excuses  Gordon 
J-A_  could  find  for  visiting  the  village.  He  was  always 
wanting  to  consult  a  book  in  the  Doctor's  library,  or  get 
something,  which,  indeed,  meant  that  he  wanted  to  get  a 
glimpse  of  a  young  girl  with  violet  eyes  and  pink  cheeks, 
stretched  out  in  a  lounging-chair,  picturesquely  reclining 
amid  clouds  of  white  pillows.  Nearly  always  he  carried 
with  him  a  bunch  of  flowers  from  Mrs.  Rawson's  garden, 
which  were  to  make  patches  of  pink  or  red  or  yellow  among 
Miss  Alice's  pillows,  and  bring  a  fresh  light  into  her  eyes. 
And  sometimes  he  took  a  basket  of  cherries  or  strawberries 
for  Mrs.  Yorke.  His  friends,  the  Doctor  and  the  Rawsons, 
began  to  rally  him  on  his  new  interest  in  the  Springs. 

"I  see  you  are  takin'  a  few  nubbins  for  the  old  cow," 
said  Squire  Rawson,  one  afternoon  as  Gordon  started  off, 
at  which  Gordon  blushed  as  red  as  the  cherries  he  was 
carrying.  It  was  just  what  he  had  been  doing. 

"Well,  that  is  the  way  to  ketch  the  calf,"  said  the  old 
farmer,  jovially  ;  "but  I  'low  the  mammy  is  used  to  pretty 
high  feedin'."  He  had  seen  Mrs.  Yorke  driving  along  in 
much  richer  attire  than  usually  dazzled  the  eyes  of  the 
Ridge  neighborhood,  and  had  gauged  her  with  a  shrewd  eye. 

Miss  Alice  Yorke's  sprain  turned  out  to  be  less  serious 
than  had  been  expected.  She  herself  had  proved  a  much 
less  refractory  patient  than  her  mother  had  ever  known 
her. 

98 


MK.  KEITH'S   IDEALS 

It  does  not  take  two  young  people  of  opposite  sexes  long 
to  overcome  the  formalities  which  convention  has  fixed 
among  their  seniors,  especially  when  one  of  them  has 
brought  the  other  down  a  mountain-side  in  his  arms. 

Often,  in  a  sheltered  corner  of  the  long  verandah,  Keith 
read  to  Alice  on  balmy  afternoons,  or  in  the  moonlit  even 
ings  sauntered  with  her  through  the  fields  of  their  limited 
experience,  and  quoted  snatches  from  his  chosen  favorites, 
poems  that  lived  in  his  heart,  and  fancied  her  the  "maid 
of  the  downward  look  and  sidelong  glance." 

Thus,  by  the  time  Alice  Yorke  was  able  to  move  about 
again,  she  and  Keith  had  already  reached  a  footing  where 
they  had  told  each  other  a  good  deal  of  their  past,  and  were 
finding  the  present  very  pleasant,  and  one  of  them,  at  least, 
was  beginning,  when  he  turned  his  eyes  to  the  future,  to 
catch  the  glimmer  of  a  very  rosy  light. 

It  showed  in  his  appearance,  in  his  face,  where  a  new 
expression  of  a  more  definite  ambition  and  a  higher  resolu 
tion  was  beginning  to  take  its  place. 

Dr.  Balsam  noted  it,  and  when  he  met  Gordon  he  began  to 
have  a  quizzical  light  in  his  deep-gray  eyes.  He  had,  too, 
a  tender  tone  in  his  voice  when  he  addressed  the  girl. 
Perhaps,  a  vision  came  to  him  at  times  of  another 
country  lad,  well-born  like  this  one,  and,  like  this  one, 
poor,  wandering  on  the  New  England  hills  with  an 
other  young  girl,  primmer,  perhaps,  and  less  sophisticated 
than  this  little  maiden,  who  had  come  from  the  westward 
to  spend  a  brief  holiday  on  the  banks  of  the  Piscataqua, 
and  had  come  into  his  life  never  to  depart— of  his  dreams 
and  his  hopes ;  of  his  struggles  to  achieve"  the"  education 
which  would  make  him  worthy  of  her ;  and  then  of  the 
overthrow  of  all :  of  darkness  and  exile  and  wanderings. 

When  the  Doctor  sat  on  his  porch  of  an  evening,  with 
his  pipe,  looking  out  over  the  sloping  hills,  sometimes  his 
face  grew  almost  melancholy.  Had  he  not  been  intended 
for  other  things  than  this  exile?  Abigail  Brooke  had 
never  married,  he  knew.  What  might  have  happened 

99 


GORDON  KEITH 

had  lie  gone  back?  And  when  he  next  saw  Alice  Yorke 
there  would  be  a  softer  tone  in  his  voice,  and  he  would 
talk  a  deeper  and  higher  philosophy  to  her  than  she  had 
ever  heard,  belittling  the  gaudy  rewards  of  life,  and  in 
stilling  in  her  mind  ideas  of  something  loftier  and  better 
and  finer  than  they.  He  even  told  her  once  something  of 
the  story  of  his  life,  and  of  the  suffering  and  sorrow  that 
had  been  visited  upon  the  victims  of  a  foolish  pride  and  a 
selfish  ambition.  Though  he  did  not  confide  to  her  that  it 
was  of  himself  he  spoke,  the  girPs  instinct  instantly  told 
her  that  it  was  his  own  experience  that  he  related,  and  her 
interest  was  deeply  excited. 

"Did  she  ever  marry,  Doctor  ?  "  she  asked  eagerly.  "Oh, 
I  hope  she  did  not.  I  might  forgive  her  if  she  did  not ; 
but  if  she  married  I  would  never  forgive  her  ! " 

The  Doctor's  eyes,  as  they  rested  on  her  eager  face,  had 
a  kindly  expression  in  them,  and  a  look  of  amusement 
lurked  there  also. 

"No  ;  she  never  married,'7  he  said.      "Nor  did  he." 

"Oh,  I  am  glad  of  that,"  she  exclaimed ;  and  then  more 
softly  added,  "I  know  he  did  not." 

Dr.  Balsam  gazed  at  her  calmly.  He  did  not  pursue  the 
subject  further.  He  thought  he  had  told  his  story  in  such 
a  way  as  to  convey  the  moral  without  disclosing  that  he 
spoke  of  himself.  Yet  she  had  discovered  it  instantly. 
He  wondered  if  she  had  seen  also  the  moral  he  intended 
to  convey. 

Alice  Yorke  was  able  to  walk  now,  and  many  an  after 
noon  Gordon  Keith  invited  her  to  stroll  with  him  on  the 
mountain-side  or  up  the  Ridge,  drawing  her  farther  and 
farther  as  her  strength  returned. 

The  Spring  is  a  dangerous  season  for  a  young  man  and  a 
pretty  girl  to  be  thrown  closely  together  for  the  first  time, 
and  the  budding  woods  are  a  perilous  pasture  for  their 
browsing  thoughts.  It  was  not  without  some  insight  that 
the  ancient  poets  pictured  dryads  as  inhabitants  of  the 

100 


MR.  KEITH'S   IDEALS 

woods,  and  made  the  tinkling  springs  and  rippling  streams 
the  abiding-places  of  their  nymphs. 

The  Spring  came  with  a  burst  of  pink  and  green.  The 
mountains  took  on  delicate  shades,  and  the  trees  blossomed 
into  vast  flowers,  feathery  and  fine  as  lace. 

An  excursion  in  the  budding  woods  has  been  dangerous 
ever  since  the  day  when  Eve  found  a  sinuous  stranger  lurk 
ing  there  in  gay  disguise,  and  was  beguiled  into  tasting  the 
tempting  fruit  he  offered  her.  It  might  be  an  interesting 
inquiry  to  collect  even  the  most  notable  instances  of  those 
who,  wandering  all  innocent  and  joyous  amid  the  bowers, 
have  found  the  honey  of  poisonous  flowers  where  they  meant 
only  innocence.  But  the  reader  will,  perhaps,  recall  enough 
instances  in  a  private  and  unrecorded  history  to  fill  the 
need  of  illustration.  It  suffices,  then,  to  say  that,  each 
afternoon  that  Gordon  Keith  wandered  with  Alice  Yorke 
through  the  leafy  woods,  he  was  straying  farther  in  that 
perilous  path  where  the  sunlight  always  sifts  down  just 
ahead,  but  the  end  is  veiled  in  mist,  and  where  sometimes 
darkness  falls. 

These  strolls  had  all  the  charm  for  him  of  discovery,  for 
he  was  always  finding  in  her  some  new  trait,  and  every  one 
was,  he  thought,  an  added  charm,  even  to  her  unexpected 
alternations  of  ignorance  and  knowledge,  her  little  feminine 
outbreaks  of  caprice.  One  afternoon  they  had  strolled 
farther  than  usual,  as  far  even  as  the  high  pines  beyond 
which  was  the  great  rock  looking  to  the  northeastward. 
There  she  had  asked  him  to  help  her  up  to  the  top  of  the 
rock,  but  he  had  refused.  He  told  her  that  she  had  walked 
already  too  far,  and  he  would  not  permit  her  to  climb  it. 

"Not  permit  me  !  Well,  I  like  that !"  she  said,  with  a 
flash  of  her  blue  eyes  ;  and  springing  from  her  seat  on  the 
brown  carpet,  before  he  could  interpose,  she  was  climbing 
up  the  high  rock  as  nimbly  as  if  she  were  a  boy. 

He  called  to  her  to  stop,  but  she  took  no  heed.  He 
began  to  entreat  her,  but  she  made  no  answer.  He  was  in 

101 


GORDON   KEITH 

terror  lest  she  might  fall,  and  sprang  after  her  to  catch  her ; 
but  up,  up  she  climbed,  with  as  steady  a  foot  and  as  sure  an 
eye  as  he  could  have  shown  himself,  until  she  reached  the 
top,  when,  looking  down  on  him  with  dancing  eyes,  she 
kissed  her  hand  in  triumph  and  then  turned  away,  her 
cheeks  aglow.  When  he  reached  the  top,  she  was  stand 
ing  on  the  very  edge  of  the  precipice,  looking  far  over  the 
long  reach  of  sloping  country  to  the  blue  line  of  the  hori 
zon.  Keith  almost  gasped  at  her  temerity.  He  pleaded 
with  her  not  to  be  so  venturesome. 

"Please  stand  farther  back,  I  beg  you,"  he  said  as  he 
reached  her  side. 

"Now,  that  is  better,"  she  said,  with  a  little  nod  to  him, 
her  blue  eyes  full  of  triumph,  and  she  seated  herself  quietly 
on  the  rock. 

Keith  began  to  scold  her,  but  she  laughed  at  him. 

He  had  done  it  often,  she  said,  and  what  he  could  do  she 
could  do. 

The  beauty  of  the  wide  landscape  sank  into  both  their 
minds,  and  after  a  little  they  both  took  a  graver  tone. 

"Tell  me  where  your  old  home  is,"  she  said  presently, 
after  a  long  pause  in  which  her  face  had  grown  thought 
ful.  "You  told  me  once  that  you  could  see  it  from  this  rock." 

Keith  pointed  to  a  spot  on  the  far  horizon.  He  did  not 
know  that  it  was  to  see  this  even  more  than  to  brave  him 
that  she  had  climbed  to  the  top  of  the  rock. 

"Now  tell  me  about  it,"  she  said.  "Tell  me  all  over 
what  you  have  told  me  before."  And  Keith  related  all  he 
could  remember.  Touched  with  her  sympathy,  he  told  it 
with  more  feeling  than  he  had  ever  shown  before.  When 
he  spoke  of  the  loss  of  his  home,  of  his  mortification,  and 
of  his  father's  quiet  dignity,  she  turned  her  face  away  to 
keep  him  from  seeing  the  tears  that  were  in  her  eyes. 

"I  can  understand  your  feeling  a  little,"  she  said  pres 
ently  ;  "but  I  did  not  know  that  any  one  could  have  so 
much  feeling  for  a  plantation.  I  suppose  it  is  because  it  is 
in  the  country,  with  its  trees  and  flowers  and  little  streams. 

102 


ME.  KEITH'S  IDEALS 

We  have  had  three  houses  since  I  can  remember.  The  one 
that  we  have  now  on  Fifth  Avenue  is  four  times  as  large 
—yes,  six  times  as  large— and  a  hundred  times  as  fine  as 
the  one  I  can  first  remember,  and  yet,  somehow,  I  always 
think,  when  I  am  sad  or  lonely,  of  the  little  white  house 
with  the  tiny  rooms  in  it,  with  their  low  ceilings  and  small 
windows,  .where  I  used  to  go  when  I  was  a  very  little  girl 
to  see  my  father's  mother.  Mamma  does  not  care  for  it  j 
she  was  brought  up  in  the  city  ;  but  I  think  my  father  loves 
it  just  as  I  do.  He  always  says  he  is  going  to  buy  it  back, 
and  I  am  going  to  make  him  do  it." 

"I  am  going  to  buy  back  mine  some  day,"  said  Keith, 
very  slowly. 

She  glanced  at  him.  His  eyes  were  fastened  on  the  far- 
off  horizon,  and  there  was  that  in  his  face  which  she  had 
never  seen  there  before,  and  which  made  her  admire  him 
more  than  she  had  ever  done. 

"I  hope  you  will,"  she  said.  She  almost  hated  Ferdy 
Wickersham  for  having  spoken  of  the  place  as  Keith  told 
her  he  had  spoken. 

When  Keith  reached  home  that  evening  he  had  a  wholly 
new  feeling  for  the  girl  with  whom  accident  had  so  curi 
ously  thrown  him.  He  was  really  in  love  with  her. 
Hitherto  he  had  allowed  himself  merely  to  drift  with  the 
pleasant  tide  that  had  been  setting  in  throughout  these 
last  weeks.  But  the  phases  that  she  had  shown  that  after 
noon,  her  spirit,  her  courage,  her  capricious  rebelliousness, 
and,  above  all,  that  glimpse  into  her  heart  which  he  had 
obtained  as  she  sat  on  the  rock  overlooking  the  wide  sweep 
where  he  had  had  his  home,  and  where  the  civilization  to 
which  it  belonged  had  had  its  home,  had  shown  him  a  new 
creature,  and  he  plunged  into  love.  Life  appeared  suddenly 
to  open  wide  her  gates  and  flood  him  with  her  rosy  light. 


103 


CHAPTER   IX 

MR.    KEITH  IS   UNPRACTICAL,   AND  MRS. 
YORKE  GIVES  HIM   GOOD   ADVICE 


strolls  in  the  budding  woods  and  the  glimpses 

_  shown  her  of  a  spirit  somewhat  different  from  any  she 
had  known  were  beginning  to  have  their  influence  on 
Alice.  It  flattered  her  and  filled  her  with  a  certain  con 
tent  that  the  young  school-teacher  should  like  her  so 
much  ;  yet,  knowing  herself,  it  gave  her  a  vague  feeling 
that  he  was  wanting  in  that  quality  of  sound  judgment 
which  she  recognized  in  some  of  her  other  admirers.  It 
rather  frightened  her  to  feel  that  she  was  on  a  pedestal  ; 
and  often  he  soared  away  from  her  with  his  poetry  and  his 
fancies,  and  she  was  afraid  that  he  would  discover  it  and 
think  she  was  a  hypocrite.  Something  that  her  mother 
had  said  remained  in  her  mind. 

"He  knows  so  much,  mamma,"  said  Alice  one  day. 
"Why,  he  can  quote  whole  pages  of  poetry." 

"He  is  too  romantic,  my  dear,  to  be  practical,"  said 
Mrs.  Yorke,  who  looked  at  the  young  men  who  approached 
her  daughter  with  an  eye  as  cool  as  a  physician's  glass. 
"He,  perhaps,  does  know  more  about  books  than  any  boy 
of  his  age  I  am  acquainted  with  ;  but  poetry  is  a  very  poor 
thing  to  live  on  ;  and  if  he  were  practical  he  would  not  be 
teaching  that  wretched  little  school  in  the  wilderness." 

"But,  mamma,  he  will  rise.  You  don't  know  how  ambi 
tious  he  is,  and  what  determination  he  has.  They  have 
lost  everything.  The  place  that  Ferdy  Wickersham  told 

104 


MR.  KEITH  IS   UNPRACTICAL 

me  about  his  father  owning,  with  its  old  pictures  and  all 
that,  was  his  old  home.  Old  Mr.  Keith,  since  he  lost  it, 
has  been  farming  it  for  Mr.  Wickersham.  Think  of  that ! " 

"Just  so,'7  said  Mrs.  Yorke.  "He  inherits  it.  They  are 
all  unpractical.  Your  father  began  life  poor  j  but  he  was 
practical,  and  he  had  the  ability  to  succeed." 

Alice's  face  softened.  "Dear  old  dad ! "  she  said ;  "I 
must  write  to  him."  Even  as  she  thought  of  him  she 
could  not  but  reflect  how  absorption  in  business  had  pre 
vented  his  obtaining  the  culture  of  which  this  young  school 
teacher  had  given  her  a  glimpse,  and  had  crushed,  though 
it  could  not  wholly  quench,  the  kindliness  which  lived  in 
his  big  heart. 

Though  Alice  defended  Keith,  she  felt  in  her  heart  there 
was  some  truth  in  her  mother's  estimate.  He  was  too 
romantic.  She  soon  had  proof  of  it. 

General  Keith  came  up  to  the  Ridge  just  then  to  see 
Gordon.  At  least,  he  gave  this  out  as  the  reason  for  his 
visit,  and  Gordon  did  not  know  until  afterwards  that  there 
was  another  reason  for  it— that  he  had  been  in  correspond 
ence  for  some  time  with  Dr.  Balsam.  He  was  looking 
thin ;  but  when  Gordon  spoke  of  it,  he  put  it  by  with  a 
smile. 

"Oh,  I  am  very  well.  We  need  not  worry  about  my 
troubles.  I  have  but  two  :  that  old  wound,  and  Old  Age  ; 
both  are  incurable." 

Gordon  was  very  pleased  to  have  the  opportunity  to 
introduce  his  father  to  Mrs.  Yorke  and  Miss  Alice.  AJS  he 
scanned  the  thin,  fine  face  with  its  expression  of  calm  and 
its  lines  of  fortitude,  he  felt  that  it  was  a  good  card  to  play. 
His  resemblance  to  the  man-in-armor  that  hung  in  the 
old  dining-room  had  increased. 

The  General  and  Miss  Alice  promptly  became  great 
friends.  He  treated  her  with  a  certain  distinction  that 
pleased  her.  Mrs.  Yorke,  too,  was  both  pleased  and  flat 
tered  by  his  gracious  manner.  She  was,  however,  more 
critical  toward  him  than  her  daughter  was. 

105 


GORDON   KEITH 

General  Keith,  soon  discovered  Gordon's  interest  in  the 
young  girl.  It  was  not  difficult  to  discover,  for  every  mo 
ment  of  his  spare  time  was  devoted  to  her  in  some  way. 
The  General  observed  them  with  a  quiet  smile  in  his  eyes. 
Now  and  then,  however,  the  smile  died  out  as  he  heard 
Gordon  expressing  views  which  were  somewhat  new  to 
him.  One  evening  they  were  all  seated  on  the  verandah 
together,  and  Gordon  began  to  speak  of  making  a  fortune 
as  a  high  aim.  He  had  heard  Mrs.  Yorke  express  the 
same  sentiments  a  few  days  before. 

"My  son,"  said  his  father,  gently,  looking  at  him  with 
grave  eyes,  "a  fortune  is  a  great  blessing  in  the  hands  of 
the  man  who  knows  how  to  spend  it.  But  riches  consid 
ered  as  something  to  possess  or  to  display  is  one  of  the 
most  despicable  and  debasing  of  all  the  aims  that  men  can 
have." 

Mrs.  Yorke's  eyes  opened  wide  and  her  face  hardened  a 
little.  Gordon  thought  of  the  toil  and  patience  it  had  cost 
him  to  make  even  his  little  salary,  and  wealth  appeared  to 
him  just  then  a  very  desirable  acquisition. 

"Why,  father,"  he  said,  "it  opens  the  world  to  a  man. 
It  gives  such  great  opportunities  for  everything ;  travel, 
knowledge,  art,  science,  power,  the  respect  and  esteem  of 
the  world,  are  obtained  by  it." 

Something  like  this  Mrs.  Yorke  had  said  to  him,  mean 
ing,  kindly  enough,  to  encourage  him  in  its  pursuit. 

The  old  General  smiled  gravely. 

"Opportunity  for  travel  and  the  acquirement  of  knowl 
edge  wealth  undoubtedly  gives,  but  happily  they  are  not 
dependent  upon  wealth,  my  son.  The  Columbuses  of  sci 
ence,  the  Galileos,  Newtons,  Keplers ;  the  great  benefac 
tors  of  the  world,  the  great  inventors,  the  great  artists, 
the  great  poets,  philosophers,  and  statesmen  have  few  of 
them  been  rich." 

"He  appears  to  have  lived  in  another  world,  mamma," 
said  Alice  when  he  had  left.  "He  is  an  old  dear.  I  never 
knew  so  unworldly  a  person." 

106 


ME.  KEITH   IS   UNPRACTICAL 

Mrs.  Yorke's  chin  tilted  a  little. 

"Now,  Alice,  don't  you  be  silly.  He  lives  in  another 
world  now,  and  certainly,  of  all  the  men  I  know,  none 
appears  less  fitted  to  cope  with  this  world.  The  only  real 
people  to  him  appear  to  be  those  whom  he  has  read  of. 
He  never  tried  wealth." 

"He  used  to  be  rich— very  rich.  Don't  you  remember 
what  that  lady  told  you  ?  " 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  said  Mrs.  Yorke,  sententiously. 

Alice  knew  that  this  closed  the  argument.  When  her 
mother  in  such  cases  said  she  did  not  believe  a  thing,  it 
meant  that  the  door  of  her  mind  was  fast  shut  and  no 
reason  could  get  into  it. 

Mrs.  Yorke  could  not  but  notice  that  some  change  had 
taken  place  in  Alice  of  late.  In  a  way  she  had  undoubt 
edly  improved.  She  was  more  serious,  more  thoughtful 
of  Mrs.  Yorke  herself,  less  wilful.  Yet  it  was  not  with 
out  some  misgiving  that  Mrs.  Yorke  noted  the  change. 

She  suddenly  had  her  eyes  opened.  Mrs.  Nailor,  one  of 
her  New  York  friends,  performed  this  amiable  office.  She 
assigned  the  possible  cause,  though  not  directly— Mrs.  Nailor 
rarely  did  things  directly.  She  was  a  small,  purring  lady, 
with  a  tilt  of  the  head,'  and  an  insinuating  voice  of  singular 
clearness,  with  a  question-mark  in  it.  She  was  of  a  very 
good  family,  lived  in  a  big  house  on  Murray  Hill,  and  had 
as  large  a  circle  of  acquaintance  as  any  one  in  New  York. 
She  prided  herself  on  knowing  everybody  worth  knowing, 
and  everything  about  everybody.  She  was  not  lacking  in 
amiability ;  she  was,  indeed,  so  amiable  that  she  would 
slander  almost  any  absent  friend  to  please  one  who  was 
present.  She  had  a  little  grudge  against  Keith,  for  she  had 
been  struck  from  the  first  by  his  bright  eyes  and  good 
manners ;  but  Keith  had  been  so  much  engrossed  by  his 
interest  in  Alice  Yorke  that  he  had  been  remiss  in  paying 
Mrs.  Nailor  that  attention  which  she  felt  her  position 
required.  Mrs.  Nailor  now  gave  Mrs.  Yorke  a  judicious 
hint. 

107 


GOKDON   KEITH 

"You  have  such  a  gift  for  knowing  people  ?  "  she  said  to 
her,  "and  your  daughter  is  so  like  you?"  She  showed 
her  even  teeth. 

Mrs.  Yorke  was  not  quite  sure  what  she  meant,  and  she 
answered  somewhat  coldly  that  she  was  glad  that  Mrs. 
Nailor  thought  so.  Mrs.  Nailor  soon  indicated  her 
meaning. 

"The  young  schoolmaster— he  is  a  schoolmaster  in 
whom  your  daughter  is  interested,  isn't  he?  Yes?  He 
appears  so  well-read?  He  brought  your  daughter  down 
the  mountain  the  day  her  horse  ran  off  with  her  ?  So  ro 
mantic  to  make  an  acquaintance  that  way— I  quite  envy 
you  ?  There  is  so  little  real  romance  these  days !  It  is 
delightful  to  find  it?"  She  sighed,  and  Mrs.  Yorke 
thought  of  Daniel  Nailor  and  his  little  bald  head  and 
round  mouth.  "Yes,  I  quite  envy  you— and  your  daugh 
ter.  Who  is  he?" 

Mrs.  Yorke  said  he  was  of  a  very  old  and  distinguished 
family.  '  She  gave  him  a  pedigree  that  would  have  done 
honor  to  a  Derby- winner. 

"I  am  so  glad,"  declared  Mrs.  Nailor.  "I  knew  he  must 
be,  of  course.  I  am  sure  you  would  never  encourage  such 
an  intimacy  unless  he  were?"  She  smiled  herself  off, 
leaving  Mrs.  Yorke  fuming. 

"That  woman  is  always  sticking  pins  into  people,"  she 
said  to  herself.  But  this  pin  had  stuck  fast,  and  Mrs. 
Yorke  was  in  quite  a  panic. 

Mrs.  Yorke  determined  to  talk  to  Alice  on  the  first  oc 
casion  that  offered  itself;  but  she  would  not  do  it  too 
abruptly.  All  that  would  be  needed  would  be  a  hint 
judiciously  given.  For  surely  a  girl  of  such  sound  sense 
as  Alice,  a  girl  brought  up  so  wisely,  could  not  for  a  mo 
ment  think  of  acting  so  foolishly.  And  really  Mrs.  Yorke 
felt  that  she  herself  was  very  fond  of  this  young  man. 
She  might  do  something  for  him— something  that  should 
be  of  use  to  him  in  after  life.  At  first  this  plan  took  the 
form  in  her  mind  of  getting  her  husband  to  give  him  a 

108 


ME.  KEITH   IS   UNPRACTICAL 

place  ;  but  she  reflected  that  this  would  necessitate  bring 
ing  him  where  his  acquaintance  with  them  might  prove 
inconvenient.  She  would  aid  him  in  going  to  college  for 
another  year.  This  would  be  a  delicate  way  to  dis 
charge  the  obligation  under  which  his  kindness  had  placed 
her. 

Keith,  meantime,  was  happily  ignorant  of  the  plot  that 
was  forming  against  him.  The  warm  weather  was  coming, 
and  he  knew  that  before  long  Mrs.  Yorke  and  Alice  would 
be  flitting  northward.  However,  he  would  make  his  hay 
while  the  sun  shone  for  him.  So  one  afternoon  Keith 
had  borne  Miss  Alice  off  to  his  favorite  haunt,  the  high 
rock  in  the  Ridge  woods.  He  was  in  unusual  spirits  ;  for  he 
had  escaped  from  Mrs.  Nailor,  who  of  late  had  appeared 
to  be  rather  lying  in  wait  for  him.  It  was  the  spot  he 
loved  best ;  for  the  pines  behind  him  seemed  to  shut  out 
the  rest  of  the  world,  and  he  felt  that  here  he  was  in  some 
sort  nearer  to  having  Alice  for  his  own  than  anywhere  else. 
It  was  here  that  he  had  caught  that  glimpse  of  her  heart 
which  he  felt  had  revealed  her  to  him. 

This  afternoon  he  was  talking  of  love  and  of  himself ;  for 
what  young  man  who  talks  of  love  talks  not  of  himself?  She 
was  dressed  in  white,  and  a  single  red  rose  that  he  had 
given  her  was  stuck  in  her  dress.  He  had  been  reading  a 
poem  to  her.  It  contained  a  picture  of  the  goddess  of 
love,  decked  out  for  "worship  without  end."  The  book 
now  lay  at  his  side,  and  he  was  stretched  at  her  feet. 

"If  I  ever  am  in  love,"  he  said  suddenly,  "it  will  be 
with  a  girl  who  must  fill  full  the  measure  of  my  dreams." 
He  was  looking  away  through  the  pine-trees  to  the  sky  far 
beyond ;  but  the  soft  light  in  "his  face  came  not  from  that 
far-off  tent  of  blue.  He  was  thinking  vaguely  how  much 
bluer  than  the  sky  were  her  eyes. 

"Yes?  "     Her  tone  was  tender. 

"She  must  be  a  beauty,  of  course."  He  gazed  at  her 
with  that  in  his  eyes  which  said,  as  plainly  as  words  could 
have  said  it,  "You  are  beautiful." 

109 


GORDON   KEITH 

But  she  was  looking  away,  wondering  to  herself  who  it 
might  be. 

"I  mean  she  must  have  what  /call  beauty/7  he  added  by 
way  of  explanation.  "I  don't  count  mere  red  and  white 
beauty.  Phrony  Tripper  has  that."  This  was  not  without 
intention.  Alice  had  spoken  of  Phrony's  beauty  one  day 
when  she  saw  her  at  the  school. 

"But  she  is  very  pretty,"  asserted  the  girl,  "so  fresh  and 
such  color ! " 

"Oh,  pretty !  yes ;  and  color— a  wine-sap  apple  has 
color.  But  I  am  speaking  of  real  beauty,  the  beauty  of  the 
rose,  the  freshness  that  you  cannot  define,  that  holds  fra 
grance,  a  something  that  you  love,  that  you  feel  even  more 
than  you  see." 

She  thought  of  a  school  friend  of  hers,  Louise  Caldwell,  a 
tall,  statuesque  beauty,  with  whom  another  friend,  Norman 
Wentworth,  was  in  love,  and  she  wondered  if  Keith  would 
think  her  such  a  beauty  as  he  described. 

"She  must  be  sweet,"  he  went  on,  thinking  to  himself  for 
her  benefit.  "I  cannot  define  that  either,  but  you  know 
what  I  mean  f  " 

She  decided  mentally  that  Louise  Caldwell  would  not  fill 
his  measure. 

"It  is  something  that  only  some  girls  have  in  common 
with  some  flowers— violets,  for  instance." 

"Oh,  I  don't  care  for  sweet  girls  very  much,"  she  said, 
thinking  of  another  schoolmate  whom  the  girls  used  to 
call  eau  sucre. 

"You  do,"  he  said  positively.  "I  am  not  talking  of 
that  kind.  It  is  womanliness  and  gentleness,  fragrance, 
warmth,  beauty,  everything." 

"Oh,  yes.  That  kind?"  she  said  acquiescingly.  "Well, 
go  on  ;  you  expect  to  find  a  good  deal." 

"I  do,"  he  said  briefly,  and  sat  up.  "I  expect  to  find 
the  best." 

She  glanced  at  him  with  new  interest.  He  was  very 
good-looking  when  he  was  spirited.  And  his  eyes  now 
were  full  of  light. 

110 


ME.  KEITH  IS  UNPRACTICAL 

"Well,  beauty  and  sweetness/'  she  said;  "what  else?  I 
must  know,  for  I  may  have  to  help  you  find  her.  There 
don't  appear  to  be  many  around  Ridgely,  since  you  have 
declined  to  accept  the  only  pretty  girl  I  have  seen." 

"She  must  be  good  and  true.  She  must  know  the  truth 
as —  His  eye  fell  at  that  instant  on  a  humming-bird,  a 
gleaming  jewel  of  changing  sapphire  that,  poised  on  half- in 
visible  wings,  floated  in  a  bar  of  sunlight  before  a  sprig  of 
pink  honeysuckle.  "—As  that  bird  knows  the  flowers 
where  the  honey  lies." 

"Where  do  you  expect  to  find  this  paragon?  " 

As  if  in  answer,  the  humming-bird  suddenly  caught 
sight  of  the  red  rose  in  her  dress,  and,  darting  to  it,  thrust- 
its  bill  deep  into  the  crimson  heart  of  the  flower.  They 
both  gave  an  exclamation  of  delighted  wonder. 

"I  have  found  her,"  he  said  firmly,  leaning  a  little 
toward  her,  with  mantling  cheeks  and  close- drawn  lips,  his 
glowing  eyes  on  her  face.  "The  bird  has  found  her  for  me." 

The  bird  darted  away. 

"Ah,  it  is  gone  !  What  will  you  give  her  in  return?" 
She  turned  to  him  and  spoke  half  mockingly,  wishing  to 
get  off  such  delicate  ground. 

He  turned  and  gazed  into  her  eyes. 

"  l Worship  without  end.'"  There  was  that  in  his  face 
that  made  her  change  color.  She  looked  away  and  began 
to  think  of  her  own  ideal.  She  found  that  her  idea  of  the 
man  she  loved  had  been  of  height  of  figure  and  breadth  of 
shoulders,  a  handsome  face  and  fashionable  attire.  She 
had  pictured  him  as  tall  and  straight,  taller  than  this  boy 
and  larger  every  way,  with  a  straight  nose,  brown  eyes, 
and  dark  hair.  But  chiefly  she  had  thought  of  the  style 
of  his  clothes.  She  had  fancied  the  neckties  he  should 
wear,  and  the  pins  that  should  be  stuck  in  them.  He  must 
be  brave,  of  course,  a  beautiful  dancer,  a  fine  tennis-player. 
She  had  once  thought  that  black-eyed,  handsome  young 
Ferdy  Wickersham  was  as  near  her  ideal  as  any  one  else  she 
knew.  He  led  germans  divinely.  But  he  was  selfish,  and 
she  had  never  admired  him  as  much  as  another  man,  who 

111 


GOKDON   KEITH 

was  less  showy,  but  was,  she  knew,  more  of  a  man :  Nor 
man  Wentworth,  a  bold  swimmer,  a  good  horseman,  and  a 
leader  of  their  set.  It  suddenly  occurred  to  her  now  how 
much  more  like  this  man  Norman  Wentworth  was  than 
Ferdy  Wickersham,  and  following  her  thought  of  the  two, 
she  suddenly  stepped  up  on  a  higher  level  and  was  con 
scious  of  a  certain  elation,  much  like  that  she  had  had  the 
day  she  had  climbed  up  before  Gordon  Keith  on  the  out- 
jutting  rock  and  looked  far  down  over  the  wide  expanse 
of  forest  and  field,  to  where  his  home  had  been. 

She  sat  for  a  little  while  in  deep  reflection.  Presently 
she  said,  quite  gravely  and  a  little  shyly  : 

"You  know,  I  am  not  a  bit  what  you  think  I  am.  Why, 
you  treat  me  as  if  I  were  a  superior  being.  And  I  am  not ; 
I  am  a  very  matter-of-fact  girl." 

He  interrupted  her  with  a  gesture  of  dissent,  his  eyes 
full  of  light. 

"Nonsense  !  You  don't  know  me,  you  don't  know  men, 
or  you  would  know  that  any  girl  is  the  superior  of  the 
best  man,"  he  reiterated. 

"You  don't  know  girls,"  she  retorted. 

"I  know  one,  at  least,"  he  said,  with  a  smile  that  spoke 
his  admiration. 

"I  am  not  sure  that  you  do,"  she  persisted,  speaking 
slowly  and  very  seriously.  She  was  gazing  at  him  in  a 
curious,  reflective  way. 

"The  one  I  know  is  good  enough  for  me."  He  leaned 
over  and  shyly  took  her  hand  and  raised  it  to  his  lips,  then 
released  it.  She  did  not  resist  him,  but  presently  she  said 
tentatively : 

"I  believe  I  had  rather  be  treated  as  I  am  than  as  some 
thing  I  am  not.  I  like  you  too  much  to  want  to  deceive 
you,  and  I  think  you  are  deceived." 

He,  of  course,  protested  that  he  was  not  deceived.  He 
"knew  perfectly  well,"  he  said.  She  was  not  convinced ; 
but  she  let  it  go.  She  did  not  want  to  quarrel  with  him 
for  admiring  her. 

112 


MR.   KEITH   IS  UNPRACTICAL 

That  afternoon,  when  Alice  came  in,  her  manner  was  so 
different  from  what  it  had  been  of  late  that  her  mother 
could  not  but  observe  it.  One  moment  she  was  distraite  ; 
the  next  she  was  impatient  and  even  irritable ;  then  this 
mood  changed,  and  she  was  unusually  gay ;  her  cheeks 
glowed  and  her  eyes  sparkled ;  but  even  as  she  reflected, 
a  change  came,  and  she  drifted  away  again  into  a  brown 
study. 

Next  day,  while  Mrs.  Yorke  was  still  considering  what 
to  do,  a  card  was  handed  her.  It  was  a  name  written 
simply  on  one  of  the  slips  of  paper  that  were  kept  on  the 
hotel  counter  below.  Keith  of  late  had  not  been  sending 
up  his  card ;  a  servant  simply  announced  his  name.  This, 
then,  decided  her.  It  was  the  most  fortunate  thing  in  the 
world  that  Alice  had  gone  off  and  was  out  of  the  way.  It 
gave  Mrs.  Yorke  the  very  opportunity  she  desired.  If,  as 
she  divined,  the  young  man  wished  to  talk  to  her  about 
anything  personal,  she  would  speak  kindly  to  him,  but  so 
plainly  that  he  could  never  forget  it.  After  all,  it  would 
be  true  kindness  to  him  to  do  so.  She  had  a  virtuous  feel 
ing  as  she  smoothed  her  hair  before  a  mirror. 

He  was  not  in  the  sitting-room  when  she  came  down ; 
so  she  sought  for  him  on  one  of  the  long  verandahs  where 
they  usually  sat.  He  was  seated  at  the  far  end,  where  he 
would  be  more  or  less  secluded,  and  she  marched  down  on 
him.  He  was  evidently  on  the  watch  for  her,  and  as  soon 
as  she  appeared  he  rose  from  his  seat.  She  had  made  up  her 
mind  very  clearly  what  she  would  say  to  him ;  but  as  she 
approached  him  it  was  not  so  easy  to  say  as  she  had 
fancied  it.  There  was  something  in  his  bearing  and  ex 
pression  that  deterred  her  from  using  the  rather  conde 
scending  words  she  had  formulated.  His  face  was  some 
what  pale ;  his  mouth  was  firmly  set,  throwing  out  the 
chin  in  a  way  to  make  it  quite  strong ;  his  eyes  were 
anxious,  but  steady  ;  his  form  was  very  erect,  and  his  shoul 
ders  were  very  square  and  straight.  He  appeared  to  her 
older  than  she  had  considered  him.  It  would  not  do  to 

113 


GOKDON   KEITH 

patronize  this  man.  After  greeting  her,  he  handed  her  a 
chair  solemnly,  and  the  next  moment  plunged  straight  into 
his  subject.  It  was  so  sudden  that  it  almost  took  her 
breath  away ;  and  before  she  knew  it  he  had,  with  the 
blood  coming  and  going  in  his  cheeks,  declared  his  love  for 
her  daughter,  and  asked  her  permission  to  pay  her  his 
addresses.  After  the  first  gulp  or  two  he  had  lost  his  em 
barrassment,  and  was  speaking  in  a  straightforward,  manly 
way.  The  color  had  come  rushing  back  into  his  face,  and 
his  eyes  were  filled  with  light.  Mrs.  Yorke  felt  that  it  was 
necessary  to  do  something.  So,  though  she  felt  some  trepi 
dation,  she  took  heart  and  began  to  answer  him.  As  she 
proceeded,  her  courage  returned  to  her,  and  seeing  that  he 
was  much  disturbed,  she  became  quite  composed. 

She  regretted  extremely,  she  said,  that  she  had  not  fore 
seen  this.  It  was  all  so  unexpected  to  her  that  she  was 
quite  overwhelmed  by  it.  She  felt  that  this  was  a  lie,  and 
she  was  not  sure  that  he  did  not  know  it.  Of  course,  it  was 
quite  impossible  that  she  could  consent  to  anything  like 
what  he  had  proposed. 

"Do  you  mean  because  she  is  from  the  North  and  I  am 
from  the  South  f  "  he  asked  earnestly. 

"No ;  of  course  not.  I  have  Southern  blood  myself. 
My  grandmother  was  from  the  South."  She  smiled  at  his 
simplicity. 

"Then  why?" 

This  was  embarrassing,  but  she  must  answer. 

"Why,  you  —  we  —  move  in  —  quite  different— spheres, 
and— ah,  it's  really  not  to  be  thought  of,  Mr.  Keith," 
she  said,  half  desperately. 

He  himself  had  thought  of  the  different  spheres  in 
which  they  moved,  but  he  had  surmounted  that  difficulty. 
Though  her  father,  as  he  had  learned,  had  begun  life  as  a 
store-boy,  and  her  mother  was  not  the  most  learned  person 
in  the  world,  Alice  Yorke  was  a  lady  to  her  finger-tips, 
and  in  her  own  fine  person  was  the  incontestable  proof  of  a 

114 


ME.   KEITH   IS   UNPRACTICAL 

strain  of  gentle  blood  somewhere.     Those  delicate  features, 
fine  hands,  trim  ankles,  and  silken  hair  told  their  own  story. 

So  he  came  near  saying,  "That  does  not  make  any  dif 
ference  " ;  but  he  restrained  himself.  He  said  instead, 
"I  do  not  know  that  I  understand  you." 

It  was  very  annoying  to  have  to  be  so  plain,  but  it  was, 
Mrs.  Yorke  felt,  quite  necessary. 

"Why,  I  mean  that  my  daughter  has  always  moved  in 
the  —  the  most  —  exclusive  society ;  she  has  had  the 
best  advantages,  and  has  a  right  to  expect  the  best  that 
can  be  given  her." 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  think  my  family  is  not  good 
enough  for  your  daughter  ?  " 

There  was  a  tone  in  his  quiet  voice  that  made  her  glance 
up  at  him,  and  a  look  on  his  face  that  made  her  answer 
quickly : 

"Oh,  no ;  not  that,  of  course.  I  have  no  doubt  your 
family  is  —  indeed,  I  have  heard  it  is  —  ur  — .  But  my 
daughter  has  every  right  to  expect  the  best  that  life  can 
give.  She  has  a  right  to  expect—  an  —  establishment." 

"You  mean  money1?"  Keith  asked,  a  little  hoarsely. 

"Why,  not  in  the  way  in  which  you  put  it ;  but  what 
money  stands  for  —  comforts,  luxuries,  position.  Now, 
don't  go  and  distress  yourself  about  this.  You  are  nothing 
but  a  silly  boy.  You  fancy  yourself  in  love  with  my 
daughter  because  she  is  the  only  pretty  girl  about  here." 

"She  is  not ;  but  she  is  the  prettiest  I  know,"  ejaculated 
Keith,  bitterly. 

"You  think  that,  and  so  you  fancy  you  are  in  love  with 
her." 

"It  is  no  fancy  j  I  am,"  asserted  Keith,  doggedly.  "I 
would  be  in  love  with  her  if  she  were  as  ugly  as— as  she 
is  beautiful." 

"Oh,  no,  you  wouldn't,"  declared  Mrs.  Yorke,  coolly. 
"Now,  the  thing  for  you  to  do  is  to  forget  all  about  her,  as 
she  will  in  a  short  time  forget  all  about  you." 

115 


GORDON  KEITH 

"I  know  she  will,  though  I  hope  she  will  not,"  groaned 
the  young  man.  "I  shall  never  forget  her— never." 

His  voice  and  manner  showed  such  unfeigned  anguish 
that  the  lady  could  not  but  feel  real  commiseration  for 
him,  especially  as  he  appeared  to  be  accepting  her  view  of 
the  case.  She  glanced  at  him  almost  kindly. 

"Is  there  nothing  I  can  do  for  you?  I  should  like  very 
much  to  do  something— something  to  show  my  apprecia 
tion  of  what  you  have  done  for  us  to  make  our  stay  here 
less  dreary  than  it  would  have  been." 

"Thank  you.  There  is  nothing,"  said  Keith.  "I  am 
going  to  turn  my  attention  now  to— getting  an  establish 
ment."  He  spoke  half  sarcastically,  but  Mrs.  Yorke 
did  not  see  it. 

"That  is  right,"  she  said  warmly. 

"It  is  not  right,"  declared  Keith,  with  sudden  vehe 
mence.  "It  is  all  wrong.  I  know  it  is  all  wrong." 

"What  the  world  thinks  is  right  can't  be  all  wrong." 
Mrs.  Yorke  spoke  decisively. 

"When  are  you  going  away?"  the  young  man  asked 
suddenly. 

"In  a  few  days."  She  spoke  vaguely,  but  even  as  she 
spoke,  she  determined  to  leave  next  day. 

"I  thank  you  for  all  your  kindness  to  me,"  said  Keith, 
standing  very  straight  and  speaking  rather  hoarsely. 

Mrs.  Yorke's  heart  smote  her.  If  it  were  not  for  her 
daughter's  welfare  she  could  have  liked  this  boy  and  be 
friended  him.  A  vision  came  to  her  from  out  of  the 
dim  past ;  a  country  boy  with  broad  shoulders  suddenly 
flashed  before  her ;  but  she  shut  it  off  before  it  became 
clear.  She  spoke  kindly  to  Keith,  and  held  out  her  hand 
to  him  with  more  real  sincerity  than  she  had  felt  in  a  long 
time. 

"You  are  a  good  boy,"  she  said,  "and  I  wish  I  could 
have  answered  you  otherwise,  but  it  would  have  been  sim 
ple  madness.  You  will  some  day  know  that  it  was  kinder 
to  you  to  make  you  look  nakedly  at  facts." 

116 


MR.   KEITH  IS  UNPRACTICAL 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  Keith,  politely.  "But  some  day, 
Mrs.  Yorke,  you  shall  hear  of  me.  If  you  do  not,  remem 
ber  I  shall  be  dead." 

With  this  bit  of  tragedy  he  turned  and  left  her,  and 
Mrs.  Yorke  stood  and  watched  him  as  he  strode  down  the 
path,  meaning,  if  he  should  turn,  to  wave  him  a  friendly 
adieu,  and  also  watching  lest  that  which  she  had  dreaded 
for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  might  happen.  It  would  be 
dreadful  if  her  daughter  should  meet  him  now.  He  did 
not  turn,  however,  and  when  at  last  he  disappeared,  Mrs. 
Yorke,  with  a  sigh  of  relief,  went  up  to  her  room  and 
began  to  write  rapidly. 


117 


CHAPTER  X 
MES.  YORKE  CUTS   THE  KNOT 

WHEN  Alice  Yorke  came  from  her  jaunt,  she  had  on 
her  face  an  expression  of  pleasant  anticipation.  She 
had  been  talking  to  Dr.  Balsam,  and  he  had  said  things 
about  Gordon  Keith  that  had  made  her  cheeks  tingle. 
"Of  the  best  blood  of  two  continents/7  he  had  said  of  him. 
"He  has  the  stuff  that  has  made  England  and  America." 
The  light  of  real  romance  was  beginning  to  envelop  her. 

As  she  entered  the  hall  she  met  Mrs.  Nailor.  Mrs. 
Nailor  smiled  at  her  knowingly,  much  as  a  cat,  could  she 
smile,  might  smile  at  a  mouse. 

"I  think  your  mother  is  out  on  the  far  end  of  the  veran 
dah.  I  saw  her  there  a  little  while  ago  talking  with  your 
friend,  the  young  schoolmaster.  What  a  nice  young  man 
he  is?  Quite  uncommon,  isn't  he?" 

Alice  gave  a  little  start.  "The  young  schoolmaster" 
indeed ! 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so.  I  don't  know."  She  hated  Mrs. 
Nailor  with  her  quiet,  cat-like  manner  and  inquisitive  ways. 
She  now  hated  her  more  than  ever,  for  she  was  conscious 
that  she  was  blushing  and  that  Mrs.  Nailor  observed  it. 

"Your  mother  is  very  interested  in  schools?  Yes?  I 
think  that  is  nice  in  her?  So  few  persons  appreciate 
education?  "  Her  air  was  absolute  innocence. 

"I  don't  know.  I  believe  she  is— interested  in  every 
thing,"  faltered  Alice.  She  wanted  to  add,  "And  so  you 
appear  to  be  also." 

118 


MRS.  YOKKE   CUTS   THE   KNOT 

"So  few  persons  care  for  education  these  days,"  pursued 
Mrs.  Nailor,  in  a  little  chime.  "And  that  young  man  is 
such  a  nice  fellow?  Has  he  a  good  school?  I  hear  you 
were  there?  You  are  interested  in  schools,  too?"  She 
nodded  like  a  little  Japanese  toy-baby. 

"I  am  sure  I  don't  know.  Yes  ;  I  think  he  has.  Why 
don't  you  go?  "  asked  the  girl  at  random. 

"Oh,  I  have  not  been  invited."  Mrs.  Nailor  smiled 
amiably.  "Perhaps,  you  will  let  me  go  with  you  some 
time?" 

Alice  escaped,  and  ran  up-stairs,  though  she  was  eager 
to  go  out  on  the  porch.  However,  it  would  serve  him 
right  to  punish  him  by  staying  away  until  she  was  sent  for, 
and  she  could  not  go  with  Mrs.  Nailor's  cat-eyes  on  her. 

She  found  her  mother  seated  at  a  table  writing  busily. 
Mrs.  Yorke  only  glanced  up  and  said,  "So  you  are  back? 
Hope  you  had  a  pleasant  time  ?  "  and  went  on  writing. 

Alice  gazed  at  her  with  a  startled  look  in  her  eyes.  She 
had  such  a  serious  expression  on  her  face. 

"What  are  you  doing?  "  She  tried  to  speak  as  indiffer 
ently  as  she  could. 

"Writing  to  your  father."     The  pen  went  on  busily. 

"What  is  the  matter?  Is  papa  ill?  Has  anything  hap 
pened?" 

"No ;  nothing  has  happened.  I  am  writing  to  say  we 
shall  be  home  the  last  of  the  week." 

"Going  away !" 

"Yes  ;  don't  you  think  we  have  been  here  long  enough? 
We  only  expected  to  stay  until  the  last  of  March,  and  here 
it  is  almost  May." 

"But  what  is  the  matter?  Why  have  you  made  up  your 
mind  so  suddenly  ?  Mamma,  you  are  so  secret !  I  am  sure 
something  is  the  matter.  Is  papa  not  well  ?  "  She  crossed 
over  and  stood  by  her  mother. 

Mrs.  Yorke  finished  a  word  and  paused  a  moment,  with 
the  end  of  her  silver  penholder  against  her  teeth. 

"Alice,"  she  said  reflectively,  "I  have  something  I  want 

119 


GOKDON  KEITH 

to  say  to  you,  and  I  have  a  mind  to  say  it  now.     I  think  I 
ought  to  speak  to  you  very  frankly." 

"Well,  for  goodness'  sake,  do,  mamma ;  for  I'm  dying  to 
know  what  has  happened."  She  seated  herself  on  the  side 
of  a  chair  for  support.  Her  face  was  almost  white. 

"Alice—" 

"Yes,  mamma."     Her  politeness  was  ominous. 

"Alice,  I  have  had  a  talk  with  that  young  man—" 

Alice's  face  flushed  suddenly. 

"What  young  man?"  she  asked,  as  though  the  Eidge 
Springs  were  thronged  with  young  men  behind  every  bush. 

"That  young  man— Mr.  Keith,"  firmly. 

"Oh  ! "  said  Alice.  "With  Mr.  Keith  !  Yes,  mamma  ? " 
Her  color  was  changing  quickly  now. 

"Yes,  I  have  had  a  quite— a  very  extraordinary  conver 
sation  with  Mr.  Keith."  As  Mrs.  Yorke  drifted  again  into 
reflection,  Alice  was  compelled  to  ask  : 

"What  about,  mamma?" 

"About  you." 

"About  me?  What  about  me ?"  Her  face  was  belying 
her  assumed  innocence. 

"Alice,  I  hope  you  are  not  going  to  behave  foolishly.  I 
cannot  believe  for  a  minute  that  you  would— a  girl  brought 
up  as  you  have  been— so  far  forget  yourself— would  allow 
yourself  to  become  interested  in  a  perfectly  unknown  and 
ignorant  and  obscure  young  man." 

"Why,  mamma,  he  is  not  ignorant ;  he  knows  more  than 
any  one  I  ever  saw,— why,  he  has  read  piles  of  books  I 
never  even  heard  of,— and  his  family  is  one  of  the  best  and 
oldest  in  this  country.  His  grandfathers  or  great-grand 
fathers  were  both  signers  of  the  Decla— " 

"I  am  not  talking  about  that,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Yorke, 
hastily.  "I  must  say  you  appear  to  have  studied  his 
family-tree  pretty  closely." 

"Dr.  Balsam  told  me,"  interjected  Alice. 

"Dr.  Balsam  had  very  little  to  talk  of.  I  am  talking  of 
his  being  unknown." 

120 


MRS.  YORKE   CUTS   THE  KNOT 

"But  I  believe  he  will  be  known  some  day.  You  don't 
know  how  clever  and  ambitious  he  is.  He  told  me—" 

But  Mrs.  Yorke  had  no  mind  to  let  Alice  dwell  on  what 
he  had  told  her.  He  was  too  good  an  advocate. 

"Stuff!  I  don't  care  what  he  told  you !  Alice,  he  is  a 
perfectly  unknown  and  untrained  young— creature.  All 
young  men  talk  that  way.  He  is  perfectly  gauche  and 
boorish  in  his  manner—" 

"Why,  mamma,  he  has  beautiful  manners  ! "  exclaimed 
Alice.  "I  heard  a  lady  saying  the  other  day  he  had  the 
manners  of  a  Chesterfield." 

"Chester-nonsense  ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Yorke. 

"I  think  he  has,  too,  mamma." 

"I  don't  agree  with  you,"  declared  Mrs.  Yorke,  energeti 
cally.  "How  would  he  appear  in  New  York?  Why,  he 
wears  great  heavy  shoes,  and  his  neckties  are  something 
dreadful." 

"His  neckties  are  bad,"  admitted  Alice,  sadly. 

Mrs.  Yorke,  having  discovered  a  breach  in  her  adver 
sary's  defences,  like  a  good  general  directed  her  attack 
against  it. 

"He  dresses  horribly  ;  he  wears  his  hair  like  a— country 
man  ;  and  his  manners  are  as  antiquated  as  his  clothes. 
Think  of  him  at  the  opera  or  at  one  of  Mrs.  Wentworth's 
receptions!  He  says  ' madam'  and  'sir'  as  if  he  were  a 
servant." 

"I  got  after  him  about  that  once,"  said  the  girl,  reflec 
tively.  "I  said  that  only  servants  said  that." 

"Well,  what  did  he  say?" 

"Said  that  that  proved  that  servants  sometimes  had 
better  manners  than  their  masters." 

"Well,  I  must  say,  I  think  he  was  excessively  rude ! " 
asserted  Mrs.  Yorke,  picking  up  her  fan  and  beginning  to 
fan  rapidly. 

"That's  what  I  said ;  but  he  said  he  did  not  see  how  it 
could  be  rude  to  state  a  simple  and  impersonal  fact  in  a 
perfectly  respectful  way." 

121 


GOBDON  KEITH 

Alice  was  warming  up  in  defence  and  swept  on. 

"He  said  the  new  fashion  was  due  to  people  who  were 
not  sure  of  their  own  position,  and  were  afraid  others 
might  think  them  servile  if  they  employed  such  terms." 

"What  does  he  know  about  fashion?  " 

"He  says  fashion  is  a  temporary  and  shifting  thing,  some 
times  caused  by  accident  and  sometimes  made  by  trades 
men,  but  that  good  manners  are  the  same  to-day  that  they 
were  hundreds  of  years  ago,  and  that  though  the  ways  in 
which  they  are  shown  change,  the  basis  is  always  the  same, 
being  kindness  and  gentility." 

Mrs.  Yorke  gasped. 

"Well,  I  must  say,  you  seem  to  have  learned  your 
lesson  ! "  she  exclaimed. 

Alice  had  been  swept  on  by  her  memory  not  only  of  the 
words  she  was  repeating,  but  of  many  conversations  and 
interchanges  of  thought  Gordon  Keith  and  she  had  had 
during  the  past  weeks,  in  which  he  had  given  her  new 
ideas.  She  began  now,  in  a  rather  low  and  unsteady  voice, 
her  hands  tightly  clasped,  her  eyes  in  her  lap  : 

"Mamma,  I  believe  I  like  him  very  much— better  than 
I  shall  ever—" 

"Nonsense,  Alice !  Now,  I  will  not  have  any  of  this 
nonsense.  I  bring  you  down  here  for  your  health,  and  you, 
take  up  with  a  perfectly  obscure  young  countryman  about 
whom  you  know  nothing  in  the  world,  and—" 

"I  know  all  about  him,  mamma.  I  know  he  is  a  gentle 
man.  His  grandfather — " 

"You  know  nothing  about  him,"  asserted  Mrs.  Yorke, 
rising.  "You  may  be  married  to  a  man  for  years  and 
know  very  little  of  him.  How  can  you  know  about  this 
boy?  You  will  go  back  and  forget  all  about  him  in  a 
week." 

"I  shall  never  forget  him,  mamma,"  said  Alice,  in  a  low 
tone,  thinking  of  the  numerous  promises  she  had  made  to 
the  same  effect  within  the  past  few  days. 

"Fiddlesticks  !     How  often  have  you  said  that?    A  half- 

122 


MRS.  YORKE   CUTS  THE  KNOT 

dozen  times  at  least.  There's  Norman  and  Ferdy  Wicker- 
sham  and—" 

"I  have  not  forgotten  them,"  said  Alice,  a  little  im 
pressed  by  her  mother's  argument. 

"Of  course,  you  have  not.  I  don't  think  it's  right,  Alice, 
for  you  to  be  so— susceptible  and  shallow.  At  least  once 
every  three  months  I  have  to  go  through  this  same  thing. 
There's  Ferdy  Wickersham— handsome,  elegant  manners, 
very  ri— with  fine  prospects  every  way,  devoted  to  you 
for  ever  so  long.  I  don't  care  for  his  mother,  but  his 
people  are  now  received  everywhere.  Why—  f  " 

"Mamma,  I  would  not  marry  Ferdy  Wickersham  if  he 
were  the  last  man  in— to  save  his  life— not  for  ten  millions 
of  dollars.  And  he  does  not  care  for  me." 

"Why,  he  is  perfectly  devoted  to  you,"  insisted  Mrs. 
Yorke. 

"Ferdy  Wickersham  is  not  perfectly  devoted  to  anyone 
except  himself— and  never  will  be,"  asserted  Alice,  vehe 
mently.  "If  he  ever  cared  for  any  one  it  is  Louise 
Caldwell." 

Mrs.  Yorke  shifted  her  ground. 

"There's  Norman  Wentworth?     One  of  the  best—" 

"Ah !  I  don't  love  Norman.  I  never  could.  We  are 
the  best  of  friends,  but  I  just  like  and  respect  him." 

"Respect  is  a  very  safe  ground  to  marry  on,"  said  Mrs. 
Yorke,  decisively.  "Some  people  do  not  have  even  that 
when  they  marry." 

"Then  I  am  sorry  for  them,"  said  Miss  Alice.  "But  when 
I  marry,  I  want  to  love.  I  think  it  would  be  a  crime  to 
marry  a  man  you  did  not  love.  God  made  us  with  a  ca 
pacity  to  form  ideals,  and  if  we  deliberately  fall  below 
them—" 

Mrs.  Yorke  burst  out  laughing. 

"Oh,  stuff!  That  boy  has  filled  your  head  with  enough 
nonsense  to  last  a  lifetime.  I  would  not  be  such  a  parrot. 
I  want  to  finish  my  letter  now." 

Mrs.  Yorke  concluded  her  letter,  and  two  mornings  later 

123 


GORDON   KEITH 

the  Yorkes  took  the  old  two-horse  stage  that  plied  be 
tween  the  Springs  and  the  little  grimy  railway-station,  ten 
miles  away  at  the  foot  of  the  Ridge,  and  metaphorically 
shook  the  dust  of  Eidgely  from  their  feet,  though,  from  their 
appearance  when  they  reached  the  railway,  it,  together 
with  much  more,  must  have  settled  on  their  shoulders. 

The  road  passed  the  little  frame  school-house,  and  as 
the  stage  rattled  by,  the  young  school- teacher's  face  changed. 
He  stood  up  and  looked  out  of  the  window  with  a  curious 
gaze  in  his  burning  eyes.  Suddenly  his  face  lit  up  :  a  little 
head  under  a  very  pretty  hat  had  nodded  to  him.  He 
bowed  low,  and  went  back  to  his  seat  with  a  new  expres 
sion.  That  bow  chained  him  for  years.  He  almost  for 
gave  her  high-headed  mother. 

Alice  bore  away  with  her  a  long  and  tragic  letter  which 
she  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  confide  to  her  mother  at 
this  time,  in  view  of  the  fact  that  the  writer  declared  that 
in  his  present  condition  he  felt  bound  to  recognize  her 
mother's  right  to  deny  Ms  request  to  see  her  ;  but  that  he 
meant  to  achieve  such  success  that  she  would  withdraw  her 
prohibition,  and  to  return  some  day  and  lay  at  her  feet 
the  highest  honors  life  could  give. 

A  woman  who  has  discarded  a  man  is,  perhaps,  nearer 
loving  him  just  afterwards  than  ever  before.  Certainly 
Miss  Alice  Yorke  thought  more  tenderly  of  Gordon  Keith 
when  she  found  herself  being  borne  away  from  him  than 
she  had  ever  done  during  the  weeks  she  had  known  him. 

It  is  said  that  a  broken  heart  is  a  most  valuable  posses 
sion  for  a  young  man.  Perhaps,  it  was  so  to  Keith. 

The  rest  of  the  session  dragged  wearily  for  him.  But 
he  worked  like  fury.  He  would  succeed.  He  would  rise. 
He  would  show  Mrs.  Yorke  who  he  was. 

Mrs.  Yorke,  having  reached  home,  began  at  once  to  lead 
her  daughter  back  to  what  she  esteemed  a  healthier  way  of 
thinking  than  she  had  fallen  into.  This  opportunity  came 
in  the  shape  of  a  college  commencement  with  a  consequent 
boat-race,  and  all  the  gayeties  that  this  entailed. 

124 


MKS.  YOEKE   CUTS   THE   KNOT 

Mrs.  Yorke  was,  in  her  way,  devoted  to  her  daughter,  and 
had  a  definite  and  what  she  deemed  an  exalted  ambition 
for  her.  This  meant  that  she  should  be  the  best-dressed 
girl  in  society,  should  be  a  belle,  and  finally  should  make 
the  most  brilliant  marriage  of  her  set— to  wit,  the  wealthi 
est  marriage.  She  had  dreamed  at  times  of  a  marriage 
that  should  make  her  friends  wild  with  envy— of  a  title,  a 
high  title.  Alice  had  beauty,  style,  wealth,  and  vivacity  j 
she  would  grace  a  coronet,  and  mamma  would  be  "Madam, 
the  Countess's  mother."  But  mamma  encountered  an  un 
expected  obstacle. 

When  Mrs.  Yorke,  building  her  air-castles,  casually  let 
fall  her  idea  of  a  title  for  Alice,  there  was  a  sudden  and 
unexpected  storm  from  an  unlooked-for  quarter.  Dennis 
Yorke,  usually  putty  in  his  wife's  hands,  had  two  or  three 
prejudices  that  were  principles  with  him.  As  to  these  he 
was  rock.  His  daughter  was  his  idol. 

For  her,  from  the  time  she  had  opened  her  blue  eyes  on 
him  and  blinked  at  him  vaguely,  he  had  toiled  and  schemed 
until  his  hair  had  turned  from  brown  to  gray  and  then  had 
disappeared  from  his  round,  strongly  set  head.  For  the  love 
he  bore  her  he  had  served  longer  than  Jacob  served  for 
Rachel,  and  the  time  had  not  appeared  long.  The  suggest 
ion  that  the  money  he  had  striven  for  from  youth  to  age 
should  go  to  some  reprobate  foreigner,  to  pay  his  gambling- 
debts,  nearly  threw  him  into  a  convulsion.  His  ancestors 
had  been  driven  from  home  to  starve  in  the  wilderness 
by  such  creatures.  "Before  any  d— d  foreign  reprobate 
should  have  a  dollar  of  his  money  he  would  endow  a  lunatic 
asylum  with  it."  So  Mrs.  Yorke  prudently  refrained  from 
pressing  this  subject  any  further  at  this  time,  and  built 
her  hopes  on  securing  the  next  most  advantageous  alliance 
—a  wealthy  one.  She  preferred  Norman  Wentworth  to 
any  of  the  other  young  men,  for  he  was  not  only  rich,  but 
the  Wentworths  were  an  old  and  established  house,  and 
Mrs.  Wentworth  was  one  of  the  old  aristocrats  of  the  State, 
whose  word  was  law  above  that  of  even  the  wealthiest  of 

125 


GORDON   KEITH 

the  new  leaders.  To  secure  Norman  Wentworth  would  be 
"almost  as  good  as  a  title."  An  intimacy  was  sedulously 
cultivated  with  "dear  Mrs.  Wentworth,"  and  Norman,  the 
"dear  boy,"  was  often  brought  to  the  house. 

Perversely,  he  and  Alice  did  not  take  to  each  other  in 
the  way  Mrs.  Yorke  had  hoped.  They  simply  became  the 
best  of  friends,  and  Mrs.  Yorke  had  the  mortification  of 
seeing  a  tall  and  statuesque  schoolmate  of  Alice's  capture 
Norman,  while  Alice  appeared  totally  indifferent  to  him. 
What  made  it  harder  to  bear  was  that  Mrs.  Caldwell, 
Louise  Caldwell's  mother,  a  widow  with  barely  enough  to 
live  respectably  on,  was  quietly  walking  off  with  the  prize 
which  Mrs.  Yorke  and  a  number  of  other  mothers  were 
striving  to  secure,  and  made  no  more  of  it  than  if  it  had 
been  her  right.  It  all  came  of  her  family  connections. 
That  was  the  way  with  those  old  families.  They  were 
so  selfishly  exclusive  and  so  proud.  They  held  themselves 
superior  to  every  one  else  and  appeared  to  despise  wealth. 
Mrs.  Yorke  did  not  believe  Mrs.  Caldwell  really  did  despise 
wealth,  but  she  admitted  that  she  made  a  very  good  show 
of  doing  it. 

Mrs.  Yorke,  foreseeing  her  failure  with  Norman  Went 
worth,  was  fain  to  accept  in  his  place  Ferdy  Wickersham, 
who,  though  certainly  not  Norman's  equal  in  some  respects, 
was  his  superior  in  others. 

To  be  sure,  Ferdy  was  said  to  be  a  somewhat  reckless 
young  fellow,  and  Mr.  Yorke  did  not  fancy  him ;  but  Mrs. 
Yorke  argued,  "Boys  will  be  boys,  and  you  know,  Mr. 
Yorke,  you  have  told  me  you  were  none  too  good  yourself." 
On  this,  Dennis  Yorke  growled  that  a  man  was  "a  fool  ever 
to  tell  his  wife  anything  of  the  kind,  and  that,  at  least,  he 
never  was  in  that  young  Wickersham's  class." 

All  of  which  Mrs.  Yorke  put  aside,  and  sacrificed  herself 
unstintedly  to  achieve  success  for  her  daughter  and  compel 
her  to  forget  the  little  episode  of  the  young  Southern 
schoolmaster,  with  his  tragic  air. 

Ah,  the  dreams  of  the  climbers  !  How  silly  they  are  ! 
Golden  clouds  at  the  top,  and  just  as  they  are  reached, 

126 


MRS.  YORKE   CUTS   THE   KNOT 

some  little  Jack  conies  along  and  chops  down  the  bean 
stalk,  clouds  and  all. 

So,  Mrs.  Yorke  dreamed,  and,  a  trifle  anxious  over  Alice's 
persistent  reference  to  the  charms  of  Spring  woods  and  a 
Southern  climate,  after  a  week  or  two  of  driving  down -town 
and  eager  choosing  of  hats  and  wearying  fitting  of  dresses, 
started  off  with  the  girl  on  the  yacht  of  Mr.  Lancaster,  a 
wealthy,  dignified,  and  cultivated  friend  of  her  husband's. 
He  had  always  been  fond  of  Alice,  and  now  got  up  a  yacht- 
party  for  her  to  see  the  boat-race. 

Keith  had  thought  that  the  time  when  he  should  leave 
the  region  where  he  had  been  immersed  so  long  would  be 
the  happiest  hour  of  his  life.  Yet,  when  the  day  came,  he 
was  conscious  of  a  strange  tugging  at  his  heart.  These  peo 
ple  whom  he  was  leaving,  and  for  whom  he  had  in  his  heart 
an  opinion  very  like  contempt  on  account  of  their  ignorance 
and  narrowness,  appeared  to  him  a  wholly  different  folk. 
There  was  barely  one  of  them  but  had  been  kind  to  him. 
Hard  they  might  appear  and  petty ;  but  they  lived  close 
together,  and,  break  through  the  crust,  one  was  sure  to 
find  a  warm  heart  and  often  a  soft  one. 

He  began  to  understand  Dr.  Balsam's  speech :  "I  have 
lived  in  several  kinds  of  society,  and  I  like  the  simplest  best. 
One  can  get  nearer  to  men  here.  I  do  not  ask  gratitude. 
I  get  affection." 

Keith  had  given  notice  that  the  school  would  close  on  a 
certain  day.  The  scholars  always  dropped  off  as  summer 
came,  to  work  in  the  crops ;  and  the  attendance  of  late 
had  been  slim.  This  last  day  he  hardly  expected  to  have 
half  a  dozen  pupils.  To  his  surprise,  the  school-house 
was  filled. 

Even  Jake  Dennison,  who  had  been  off  in  the  mountains 
for  some  little  time  getting  out  timber,  was  on  hand,  large 
and  good-humored,  sitting  beside  Phrony  Tripper  in  her 
pink  ribbons,  and  fanning  her  hard  enough  to  keep  a  mine 
fresh.  A  little  later  in  the  day  quite  a  number  of  the 
fathers  and  mothers  of  the  children  arrived  in  their  rickety 

127 


GOKDON   KEITH 

vehicles.  They  had  come  to  take  leave  of  the  young 
teacher.  There  were  almost  as  many  as  were  present  at 
the  school  celebration.  Keith  was  quite  overcome,  and 
when  the  hour  arrived  for  closing  the  school,  instead  of,  as 
he  had  expected,  tying  up  the  half-dozen  books  he  kept 
in  his  desk,  shaking  hands  with  the  dozen  children  eager 
to  be  turned  loose  in  the  delightful  pasturage  of  summer 
holiday,  turning  the  key  in  the  lock,  and  plodding  alone 
down  the  dusty  road  to  Squire  Rawson's,  he  now  found  the 
school-room  full,  not  of  school -children  only,  but  of  grown 
people  as  well.  He  had  learned  that  they  expected  him 
to  say  something,  and  there  was  nothing  for  him  to  do  but 
to  make  the  effort.  For  an  hour,  as  he  sat  during  the  last 
lessons, —which  were  in  the  nature  of  a  review,— the  pages 
before  him  had  been  mere  blurred  spaces  of  white,  and  he 
had  been  cogitating  what  he  should  say.  Yet,  when  he 
rose,  every  idea  that  he  had  tried  so  faithfully  to  put  into 
shape  fled  from  his  brain. 

Dropping  all  the  well-turned  phrases  which  he  had  been 
trying  to  frame,  he  said  simply  that  he  had  come  there  two 
years  before  with  the  conceit  of  a  young  man  expecting  to 
teach  them  a  good  deal,  and  that  he  went  away  feeling  that 
he  had  taught  very  little,  but  that  he  had  learned  a  great 
deal ;  he  had  learned  that  the  kindest  people  in  the  world 
lived  in  that  region  ;  he  should  never  forget  their  kindness 
and  should  always  feel  that  his  best  friends  were  there.  A 
few  words  more  about  his  hopes  for  the  school  and  his 
feeling  for  the  people  who  had  been  so  good  to  him,  and 
he  pronounced  the  school  closed.  To  his  surprise,  at  a 
wink  from  Squire  Kawson,  one  of  the  other  trustees,  who  had 
formerly  been  opposed  to  Keith,  rose,  and,  addressing  the 
assemblage,  began  to  say  things  about  him  that  pleased 
him  as  much  as  they  astonished  him. 

He  said  that  they,  too,  had  begun  with  some  doubt  as  to 
how  things  would  work,  as  one  "  could  never  tell  what  a  colt 
would  do  till  he  got  the  harness  on  him,"  but  this  colt  had 
"turned  out  to  be  a  pretty  good  horse."  Mr.  Keith,  maybe, 

128 


MKS.   YOKKE   CUTS   THE   KNOT 

had  taught  more  than  he  knew.  He  had  taught  some 
folks— this  with  a  cut  of  his  eye  over  toward  where  Jake 
Dennison  sat  big  and  brown  in  the  placid  content  of  a  young 
giant,  fanning  Euphronia  for  life— he  had  "taught  some 
folks  that  a  door  had  to  be  right  strong  to  keep  out  a  teacher 
as  knowed  his  business."  Anyhow,  they  were  satisfied  with 
him,  and  the  trustees  had  voted  to  employ  him  another  year, 
but  he  had  declined.  He  had  "  business  "  that  would  take 
him  away.  Some  thought  they  knew  that  business.  (At 
this  there  was  a  responsive  titter  throughout  the  major 
portion  of  the  room,  and  Gordon  Keith  was  furious  with 
himself  for  finding  that  he  suddenly  turned  hot  and  red.) 
He  himself,  the  speaker  said,  didn't  pretend  to  know  any 
thing  about  it,  but  he  wanted  to  say  that  if  Mr.  Keith 
didn't  find  the  business  as  profitable  as  he  expected,  the 
trustees  had  determined  to  hold  the  place  open  for  him  for 
one  year,  and  had  elected  a  successor  temporarily  to  hold  it 
in  case  he  should  want  to  come  back. 

At  this  there  was  a  round  of  approval,  as  near  general 
applause  as  that  stolid  folk  ever  indulged  in. 

Keith  spent  the  next  day  in  taking  leave  of  his  friends. 

His  last  visit  that  evening  was  to  Dr.  Balsam.  He  had 
not  been  to  the  village  often  in  the  evening  since  Mrs. 
Yorke  and  her  daughter  had  left  the  place.  Now,  as  he 
passed  up  the  walk,  the  summer  moonlight  was  falling  full 
on  the  white  front  of  the  little  hotel.  The  slanting  moon 
light  fell  on  the  corner  of  the  verandah  where  he  had  talked 
so  often  to  Alice  Yorke  as  she  lay  reclining  on  her  lounge, 
and  where  he  had  had  that  last  conversation  with  Mrs. 
Yorke,  and  Keith  saw  a  young  man  leaning  over  some  one 
enveloped  in  white,  half  reclining  in  an  arm-chair.  He 
wondered  if  the  same  talk  were  going  on  that  had  gone  on 
there  before  that  evening  when  Mrs.  Yorke  had  made  him 
look  nakedly  at  Life. 

When  Keith  stated  his  errand,  the  Doctor  looked  almost 
as  grave  as  he  could  have  done  had  one  of  his  cherished 
patients  refused  to  respond  to  his  most  careful  treatment. 

129 


GORDON   KEITH 

"One  thing  I  want  to  say  to  you/'  he  said  presently.  "You 
have  been  eating  your  heart  out  of  late  about  something, 
and  it  is  telling  on  you.  Give  it  up.  Give  that  girl  up. 
You  will  have  to  sooner  or  later.  They  will  prove  too 
strong  for  you.  Even  if  you  do  not,  she  will  not  suit  you  ; 
you  will  not  get  the  woman  you  are  after.  She  is  an  at 
tractive  young  girl,  but  she  will  not  remain  so.  A  few 
years  in  fashionable  society  will  change  her.  It  is  the 
most  corroding  life  on  earth  ! "  exclaimed  the  Doctor,  bit 
terly.  "Convention  usurps  the  place  of  every  principle, 
and  becomes  the  only  god.  She  must  change.  All  is 
Vanity  ! "  repeated  the  Doctor,  almost  in  a  revery,  his  eyes 
resting  on  Keith's  face. 

"Well,"  he  said,  with  a  sigh,  "if  you  ever  get  knocked 
down  and  hurt  badly,  come  back  up  here,  and  I  will  patch 
you  up  if  I  am  living  ;  and  if  not,  come  back  anyhow.  The 
place  will  heal  you  provided  you  don't  take  drugs.  God 
bless  you !  Good-by."  He  walked  with  Keith  to  the 
outer  edge  of  his  little  porch  and  shook  hands  with  him 
again,  and  again  said,  "Good-by:  God  bless  you!" 
When  Keith  turned  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  and  looked 
back,  he  was  just  reentering  his  door,  his  spare,  tall  frame 
clearly  outlined  against  the  light  within.  Keith  somehow 
felt  as  if  he  were  turning  his  back  on  a  landmark. 

Just  as  Keith  approached  the  gate  on  his  return  home, 
a  figure  rose  up  from  a  fence-corner  and  stood  before  him 
in  the  starlight. 

"Good  even'n',  Mr.  Keith."  The  voice  was  Dave  Denni- 
son's.  Keith  greeted  him  wonderingly.  What  on  earth 
could  have  brought  the  boy  out  at  that  time  of  the  night  t 

"Would  you  mind  jest  comin'  down  this  a- way  a  little 
piece  ?  " 

Keith  walked  back  a  short  distance.  Dave  was  always 
mysterious  when  he  had  a  communication  to  make.  It  was 
partly  a  sort  of  shyness  and  partly  a  survival  of  frontier  craft. 

Dave  soon  resolved  Keith's  doubt.  "I  hear  you're 
a-goin'  away  and  ain't  comin'  back  no  more  ?  " 

130 


MRS.    YORKE   CUTS  THE   KNOT 

"How  did  you  hear  that— I  mean,  that  I  am  not  coming 
back  again  I "  asked  Keith. 

"Well,  you're  a-sayin'  good-by  to  everybody,  same's  if 
they  were  all  a-goin'  to  die.  Folks  don't  do  that  if  they're 
a-comin'  back."  He  leaned  forward,  and  in  the  semi- 
darkness  Keith  was  aware  that  he  was  scrutinizing  his  face. 

"No,  I  do  not  expect  to  come  back— to  teach  school 
again ;  but  I  hope  to  return  some  day  to  see  my  friends." 

The  boy  straightened  up. 

"Well,  I  wants  to  go  with  you." 

"You  !  Go  with  me  !  "  Keith  exclaimed.  Then,  for  fear 
the  boy  might  be  wounded,  he  said :  "Why,  Dave,  I  don't 
even  know  where  I  am  going.  I  have  not  the  least  idea  in 
the  world  what  I  am  going  to  do.  I  only  know  I  am  going 
away,  and  I  am  going  to  succeed." 

"That's  right.  That's  all  right,"  agreed  the  boy. 
"You're  a-goin'  somewheres,  and  I  want  to  go  with  you. 
You  don't  know  where  you're  a-goin',  but  you're  a-goin'. 
You  know  all  them  outlandish  countries  like  you've  been 
a-tellin'  us  about,  and  I  don't  know  anything,  but  I  want  to 
know,  and  I'm  a-goin'  with  you.  Leastways,  I'm  a-goin', 
and  I'm  a-goin'  with  you  if  you'll  let  me." 

Keith's  reply  was  anything  but  reassuring.  He  gave  good 
reasons  against  Dave's  carrying  out  his  plan ;  but  his  tone 
was  kind,  and  the  youngster  took  it  for  encouragement. 

"I  ain't  much  account,  I  know,"  he  pleaded.  "I  ain't  any 
account  in  the  worV^  he  corrected  himself,  so  that  there 
could  be  no  mistake  about  the  matter.  "They  say  at 
home  I  used  to  be  some  account— some  little  account— be 
fore  I  took  to  books— before  I  sorter  took  to  books,"  he 
corrected  again  shamefacedly  ;  "but  since  then  I  ain't  been 
no  manner  of  account.  But  I  think— I  kinder  think— I 
could  be  some  account  if  I  knowed  a  little  and  could  go 
somewheres  to  be  account." 

Keith  was  listening  earnestly,  and  the  boy  went  on  : 

"When  you  told  us  that  word  about  that  man  Hannibal 
tellin'  his  soldiers  how  everything  lay  t'other  side  the 

131 


GORDON  KEITH 

mountains,  I  begin  to  see  what  you  meant.  I  thought 
before  that  I  knowed  a  lot  j  then  I  found  out  how  durned 
little  I  did  know,  and  since  then  I  have  tried  to  learn,  and 
I  mean  to  learn ;  and  that's  the  reason  I  want  to  go  with 
you.  You  know  and  I  don't,  and  you're  the  only  one  as 
ever  made  me  want  to  know." 

Keith  was  conscious  of  a  flush  of  warm  blood  about  his 
heart.  It  was  the  first-fruit  of  his  work. 

The  boy  broke  in  on  his  pleasant  revery. 

"You'll  let  me  go?"  he  asked.  "'Cause  I'm  a-goin?  cer 
tain  sure.  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  stay  here  in  this  country  no 
longer.  See  here."  He  pulled  out  an  old  bag  and  poked 
it  into  Keith's  hand.  "I've  got  sixteen  dollars  and 
twenty-three  cents  there.  I  made  it,  and  while  the  other 
boys  were  spendin'  theirn,  I  saved  mine.  You  can  pour 
it  out  and  count  it." 

Keith  said  he  would  go  and  see  his  father  about  it  the 
next  day. 

This  did  not  appear  to  satisfy  Dave. 

"I'm  a-goin'  whether  he  says  so  or  not,"  he  burst  forth. 
"I  want  to  see  the  worF.  Don't  nobody  keer  nothin'  about 
me,  an7  I  want  to  git  out." 

"Oh,  yes  !    Why,  I  care  about  you,"  said  Keith. 

To  his  surprise,  the  boy  began  to  whimper. 

"Thankee.  I'm  obliged  to  you.  I— want  to  go  away— 
where  Phrony  ner  nobody— ner  anybody  won't  never  see 
me  no  more— any  more." 

The  truth  dawned  on  Keith.  Little  Dave,  too,  had  his 
troubles,  his  sorrows,  his  unrequited  affections.  Keith 
warmed  to  the  boy. 

"Phrony  is  a  lot  older  than  you,"  he  said  consolingly. 

"No,  she  ain't ;  we  are  just  of  an  age  ;  and  if  she  was  I 
wouldn't  keer.  I'm  goin'  away." 

Keith  had  to  interpose  his  refusal  to  take  him  in  such  a 
case.  He  said,  however,  that  if  he  could  obtain  his  father's 
consent,  as  soon  as  he  got  settled  he  would  send  for  him. 
On  the  basis  of  this  compromise  the  boy  went  home. 

132 


CHAPTER  XI 
GUMBOLT 

TTTITH  the  savings  of  his  two  years  of  school-teaching 
?  T    Keith  found  that  he  had  enough,  by  practising  rigid 
economy,  to  give  himself  another  year  at  college,  and  he 
practised  rigid  economy. 

He  worked  under  the  spur  of  ambition  to  show  Alice 
Yorke  and  those  who  surrounded  her  that  he  was  not  a 
mere  country  clod. 

With  his  face  set  steadily  in  the  direction  where  stood 
the  luminous  form  of  the  young  girl  he  had  met  and  come 
to  worship  amid  the  blossoming  woods,  he  studied  to  such 
good  purpose  that  at  the  end  of  the  session  he  had  packed 
two  years '  work  into  one. 

Keith  had  no  very  definite  ideas,  when  he  started  out  at 
the  end  of  his  college  year,  as  to  what  he  should  do.  He 
only  knew  that  he  had  strong  pinions,  and  that  the  world 
was  before  him.  He  wished  to  bury  himself  from  obser 
vation  until  he  should  secure  the  success  with  which  he 
would  burst  forth  on  an  astonished  world,  overwhelm  Mrs. 
Yorke,  and  capture  Alice.  His  first  intention  had  been  to 
go  to  the  far  West ;  but  on  consideration  he  abandoned  the 
idea. 

Rumors  were  already  abroad  that  in  the  great  Appala 
chian  mountain-range  opportunity  might  be  as  golden  as 
in  that  greater  range  on  the  other  side  of  the  continent. 

Keith  had  a  sentiment  that  he  would  rather  succeed  in 
the  South  than  elsewhere. 

133 


GORDON   KEITH 

"Only  get  rifles  out  and  railroads  in,  and  capital  will 
come  pouring  after  them/7  Rhodes  had  said.  "Old  Wick- 
ersham  knows  his  business." 

That  was  a  good  while  ago,  and  at  last  the  awakening 
had  begun.  Now  that  carpet-bagging  was  at  an  end,  and 
affairs  were  once  more  settled  in  that  section,  the  wealth 
of  the  country  was  again  being  talked  of  in  the  press. 

The  chief  centre  of  the  new  life  was  a  day's  drive  farther 
in  the  mountains  than  Eden,  the  little  hamlet  which  Keith 
had  visited  once  with  Dr.  Balsam  when  he  attended  an  old 
stage -driver,  Gilsey  by  name,  and  cut  a  bullet  out  of  what 
he  called  his  "off-leg."  This  was  the  veiled  Golconda. 
To  the  original  name  of  Humboldt  the  picturesque  and 
humorous  mountaineer  had  given  the  name  of  "Gumbolt." 

This  was  where  old  Adam  Rawson,  stirred  by  the  young 
engineer's  prophecy,  had  taken  time  by  the  forelock  and 
had  bought  up  the  mineral  rights,  and  "gotten  ahead  "  of 
Wickersham  &  Company. 

Times  and  views  change  even  in  the  Ridge  region,  and 
now,  after  years  of  delay,  Wickersham  &  Company's  rail 
road  was  about  to  be  built.  It  had  already  reached  Eden. 

Keith,  after  a  few  days  with  his  father,  stopped  at 
Ridgely  to  see  his  old  friends.  The  Doctor  looked  him 
over  with  some  disapproval. 

"As  gaunt  as  a  greyhound,"  he  muttered.  "My  patient 
not  married  yet,  I  suppose?  Well,  she  will  be.  You'd 
better  tear  her  out  of  your  memory  before  she  gets  too 
firmly  lodged  there." 

Keith  boldly  said  he  would  take  the  chances. 

When  old  Rawson  saw  him  he,  too,  remarked  on  his 
thinness  ;  but  more  encouragingly. 

"Well,  'a  lean  dog  for  a  long  chase,' "  he  said. 

"How  are  cattle?"  inquired  Keith. 

The  old  fellow  turned  his  eyes  on  him  with  a  keen  look. 

"Cattle's  tolerable.  I  been  buy  in'  a  considerable  number 
up  toward  Gumbolt,  where  you're  goin'.  I  may  get  you  to 
look  after  'em  some  day,"  he  chuckled. 

134 


GUMBOLT 

Gordon  wrote  to  Dave  Dennison  that  he  was  going  to 
Gumbolt  and  would  look  out  for  him.  A  little  later  he 
learned  that  the  boy  had  already  gone  there. 

The  means  of  reaching  Gumbolt  from  Eden,  the  termi 
nus  of  the  railroad  which  Wickersham  &  Company  were 
building,  was  still  the  stage,  a  survivor  of  the  old-time 
mountain  coach,  which  had  outlasted  all  the  manifold 
chances  and  changes  of  fortune. 

Happily  for  Keith,  he  had  been  obliged,  though  it  was 
raining,  to  take  the  outside  seat  by  the  driver,  old  Tim 
Gilsey,  to  whom  he  recalled  himself,  and  by  his  coolness 
at  "Hellstreak  Hill,"  where  the  road  climbed  over  the 
shoulder  of  the  mountain  along  a  sheer  cliff,  and  suddenly 
dropped  to  the  river  below,  a  point  where  old  Gilsey  was 
wont  to  display  his  skill  as  a  driver  and  try  the  nerves  of 
passengers,  he  made  the  old  man  his  friend  for  life. 

When  the  stage  began  to  ascend  the  next  hill,  the  old 
driver  actually  unbent  so  far  as  to  give  an  account  of  a 
" hold-up  "  that  had  occurred  at  that  point  not  long  before, 
"all  along  of  the  durned  railroad  them  Yankees  was 
bringin'  into  the  country,"  to  which  he  laid  most  of  the 
evils  of  the  time.  "For  when  you  run  a  stage  you  know 
who  you  got  with  you,"  declared  Mr.  Gilsey ;  "but  when 
you  run  a  railroad  you  dunno  who  you  got." 

"Well,  tell  me  about  the  time  you  were  held  up." 

"Didn't  nobody  hold  me  up,"  sniffed  Mr.  Gilsey.  "If  I 
had  been  goin'  to  stop  I  wouldn't  'a'  started.  It  was  a 
dom  fool  they  put  up  here  when  I  was  down  with  rheu- 
matiz.  Since  then  they  let  me  pick  my  substitute. 

"Well,"  he  said,  as  a  few  lights  twinkled  below  them, 
"there  she  is.  Some  pretty  tough  characters  there,  too. 
But  you  ain't  goin'  to  have  no  trouble  with  'em.  All  you 
got  to  do  is  to  put  the  curb  on  'em  onct." 

As  Keith  looked  about  him  in  Gumbolt,  the  morning  after 
his  arrival,  he  found  that  his  new  home  was  only  a  rude 
mining-camp,  raw  and  rugged  ;  a  few  rows  of  frame  houses, 
beginning  to  be  supplanted  by  hasty  brick  structures, 

135 


GOBDON   KEITH 

stretched  up  the  hills  on  the  sides  of  unpaved  roads,  dusty 
in  dry  weather  and  bottomless  in  wet.  Yet  it  was,  for  its 
size,  already  one  of  the  most  cosmopolitan  places  in  the 
country.  Of  course,  the  population  was  mainly  American, 
and  they  were  beginning  to  pour  in— sharp-eyed  men 
from  the  towns  in  black  coats,  and  long-legged,  quiet-look 
ing  and  quiet- voiced  mountaineers  in  rusty  clothes,  who 
hulked  along  in  single  file,  silent  and  almost  fugitive  in  the 
glare  of  daylight.  Quiet  they  were  and  well-nigh  stealthy, 
with  something  of  the  movement  of  other  denizens  of  the 
forest,  unless  they  were  crossed  and  aroused,  and  then,  like 
those  other  denizens,  they  were  fierce  almost  beyond  belief. 
A  small  cavil  might  make  a  great  quarrel,  and  pistols 
would  flash  as  quick  as  light. 

The  first  visit  that  Keith  received  was  from  J.  Quincy 
Plume,  the  editor  of  the  Gumbolt  Whistle.  He  had  the 
honor  of  knowing  his  distinguished  father,  he  said,  and 
had  once  had  the  pleasure  of  being  at  his  old  home.  He 
had  seen  Keith's  name  on  the  book,  and  had  simply  called 
to  offer  him  any  services  he  or  his  paper  could  render  him. 

"There  are  so  few  gentlemen  in  this hole,"  he  explained, 

"that  I  feel  that  we  should  all  stand  together.'7  Keith, 
knowing  J.  Quincy's  history,  inwardly  smiled. 

Mr.  Plume  had  aged  since  he  was  the  speaker  of  the 
carpet-bag  legislature ;  his  black  hair  had  begun  to  be 
sprinkled  with  gray,  and  had  receded  yet  farther  back  on 
his  high  forehead ;  his  hazel  eyes  were  a  little  bleared ; 
and  his  full  lips  were  less  resolute  than  of  old.  He  had 
evidently  seen  bad  times  since  he  was  the  facile  agent  of 
the  Wickersham  interests.  He  wore  a  black  suit  and  a  gay 
necktie  which  had  once  been  gayer,  a  shabby  silk  hat, 
and  patent-leather  shoes  somewhat  broken. 

His  addiction  to  cards  and  drink  had  contributed  to  Mr. 
Plume's  overthrow,  and  after  a  disappearance  from  public 
view  for  some  time  he  had  turned  up  just  as  Gumbolt 
began  to  be  talked  of,  with  a  small  sheet  somewhat  larger 
than  a  pocket-handkerchief,  which,  in  prophetic  tribute  to 

136 


GUMBOLT 

Gumbolt's  future  manufactures,  he  christened  the  Gumboil 
Whistle. 

Mr.  Plume  offered  to  introduce  Keith  to  "the  prettiest 
woman  in  Gumbolt,"  and,  incidentally,  to  "the  best  cock 
tail"  also.  "Terpsichore  is  a  nymph  who  practises  the 
Terpsichorean  art;  indeed,  I  may  say,  presides  over  a 
number  of  the  arts,  for  she  has  the  best  faro -bank  in  town, 
and  the  only  bar  where  a  gentleman  can  get  a  drink  that 
will  not  poison  a  refined  stomach.  She  is,  I  may  say,  the 
leader  of  Gumbolt  society." 

Keith  shook  his  head ;  he  had  come  to  work,  he  declared. 

"Oh,  you  need  not  decline  ;  you  will  have  to  know  Terpy. 
I  am  virtue  itself;  in  fact,  I  am  Joseph — nowadays.  You 
know,  I  belong  to  the  cloth?"  Keith's  expression  indi 
cated  that  he  had  heard  this  fact.  "But  even  I  have 
yielded  to  her  charms— intellectual,  I  mean,  of  course." 

Mr.  Plume  withdrew  after  having  suggested  to  Keith  to 
make  him  a  small  temporary  loan,  or,  if  more  convenient, 
to  lend  him  the  use  of  his  name  on  a  little  piece  of  bank- 
paper  "to  tide  over  an  accidental  and  unexpected  emer 
gency,"  assuring  Keith  that  he  would  certainly  take  it  up 
within  sixty  days. 

Unfortunately  for  Keith,  Plume's  cordiality  had  made  so 
much  impression  on  him  that  he  was  compliant  enough  to 
lend  him  the  use  of  his  name,  and  as  neither  at  the  expira 
tion  of  sixty  days,  nor  at  any  other  time,  did  Mr.  Plume 
ever  find  it  convenient  to  take  up  his  note,  Keith  found 
himself  later  under  the  necessity  of  paying  it  himself. 
This  circumstance,  it  is  due  to  Mr.  Plume  to  say,  he 
always  deplored,  and  doubtless  with  sincerity. 

Women  were  at  a  premium  in  Gumbolt,  and  Mr.  Plume 
was  not  the  only  person  who  hymned  the  praises  of 
"Terpsichoar,"  as  she  was  mainly  called.  Keith  could  not 
help  wondering  what  sort  of  a  creature  she  was  who  kept 
a  dance-house  and  a  faro-bank,  and  yet  was  spoken  of  with 
unstinted  admiration  and  something  very  like  respect  by 

137 


GOKDON   KEITH 

the  crowd  that  gathered  in  the  "big  room  of  the  Windsor." 
She  must  be  handsome,  and  possibly  was  a  good  dancer,  but 
she  was  no  doubt  a  wild,  coarse  creature,  with  painted  cheeks 
and  dyed  hair.  The  mental  picture  he  formed  was  not 
one  to  interfere  with  the  picture  he  carried  in  his  heart. 

Next  day,  as  he  was  making  a  purchase  in  a  shop,  a  neat 
and  trim -looking  young  woman,  with  a  fresh  complexion 
and  a  mouth  full  of  white  teeth,  walked  in,  and  in  a  pleasant 
voice  said,  "Good  morning  all."  Keith  did  not  associate 
her  at  all  with  Terpsichore,  but  he  was  surprised  that  old 
Tim  Gilsey  should  not  have  known  of  her  presence  in  town. 
He  was  still  more  surprised  when,  after  having  taken  a 
long  and  perfectly  unabashed  look  at  him,  with  no  more 
diffidence  in  it  than  if  he  had  been  a  lump  of  ore  she  was 
inspecting,  she  said : 

"You're  the  fellow  that  come  to  town  night  before  last? 
Uncle  Tim  was  tellin'  me  about  you." 

"Yes  ;  I  got  here  night  before  last.   Who  is  Uncle  Tim  ?  "' 

"Uncle  Tim  Gilsey." 

She  walked  up  and  extended  her  hand  to  him  with  the 
most  perfect  friendliness,  adding,  with  a  laugh  as  natural  as 
a  child's : 

"We'll  have  to  be  friends ;  Uncle  Tim  says  you're  a. 
white  man,  and  that's  more  than  some  he  brings  over  the 
road  these  days  are." 

"Yes,  I  hope  so.  You  are  Mr.  Gilsey's  niece?  I  am 
glad  to  meet  you." 

The  young  woman  burst  out  laughing. 

"Lor',  no.  I  ain't  anybody's  niece  j  but  he's  my  uncle— 
I've  adopted  him.  I'm  Terpy— Terpsichore;  run  Terp 
sichore's  Hall,"  she  said  by  way  of  explanation,  as  if  she 
thought  he  might  not  understand  her  allusion. 

Keith's  breath  was  almost  taken  away.  Why,  she  was 
not  at  all  like  the  picture  he  had  formed  of  her.  She  was 
a  neat,  quiet-looking  young  woman,  with  a  fine  figure,  slim 
and  straight  and  supple,  a  melodious  voice,  and  laughing- 
gray  eyes. 

138 


GUMBOLT 

"You  must  come  and  see  me.  We're  to  have  a  blow 
out  to-night.  Come  around.  I'll  introduce  you  to  the 
boys.  I've  got  the  finest  ball-room  in  town— just  finished 
—and  three  fiddles.  We  christen  it  to-night.  Goin'  to  be 
the  biggest  thing  ever  was  in  Gumbolt." 

Keith  awoke  from  his  daze. 

"Thank  you,  but  I  am  afraid  I'll  have  to  ask  you  to 
excuse  me,"  he  said. 

"Why?"  she  inquired  simply. 

"Because  I  can't  come.     I  am  not  much  of  a  dancer." 

She  looked  at  him  first  with  surprise  and  then  with 
amusement. 

"Are  you  a  Methodist  preacher?" 

"No." 

"Salvation?" 

"No." 

"I  thought,  maybe,  you  were  like  Tib  Drummond,  the 
Methodist,  what's  always  a-preachin'  ag'in'  me."  She 
turned  to  the  storekeeper.  "What  do  you  think  he  says? 
He  says  he  won't  come  and  see  me,  and  he  ain't  a  preacher 
nor  Salvation  Army  neither.  But  he  will,  won't  he  ?  " 

"You  bet,"  said  the  man,  peeping  up  with  a  grin  from 
behind  a  barrel.  "If  he  don't,  he'll  be  about  the  only  one 
in  town  who  don't." 

"No,"  said  Keith,  pleasantly,  but  firmly.     "I  can't  go." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  will,"  she  laughed.  "I'll  expect  you. 
By-by  "  ;  and  she  walked  out  of  the  store  with  a  jaunty  air, 
humming  a  song  about  the  "iligint,  bauld  Mclntyres." 

The  "blow-out"  came  off,  and  was  honored  with  a  col 
umn  in  the  next  issue  of  the  Whistle— a  column  of  reeking 
eulogy.  But  Keith  did  not  attend,  though  he  heard  the 
wheezing  of  fiddles  and  the  shouting  and  stamping  of 
Terpsichore's  guests  deep  into  the  night. 

Keith  was  too  much  engrossed  for  the  next  few  days  in 
looking  about  him  for  work  and  getting  himself  as  com 
fortably  settled  as  possible  to  think  of  anything  else. 

If,  however,  he  forgot  the  "only  decent-looking  woman 

139 


GOKDOST   KEITH 

in  Gumbolt,"  she  did  not  forget  him.  The  invitation  of  a 
sovereign  is  equivalent  to  a  command  the  world  over ;  and 
Terpsichore  was  as  much  the  queen  regnant  of  Gumbolt  as 
Her  Majesty,  Victoria,  was  Queen  of  England,  or  of  any 
other  country  in  her  wide  realm.  She  was  more  ;  she  was 
absolute.  She  could  have  had  any  one  of  a  half-dozen 
men  cut  the  throat  of  any  other  man  in  Gumbolt  at  her 
bidding. 

The  mistress  of  the  "Dancing  Academy  "  had  not  forgot 
ten  her  boast.  The  institution  over  which  she  presided  was 
popular  enough  almost  to  justify  her  wager.  There  were 
few  men  of  Keith's  age  in  Gumbolt  who  did  not  attend  its 
sessions  and  pay  their  tribute  over  the  green  tables  that 
stretched  along  the  big,  low  room. 

In  fact,  Miss  Terpsichore  was  not  of  that  class  that  forget 
either  friends  or  foes  ;  whatever  she  was  she  was  frankly  and 
outspokenly.  Mr.  Plume  informed  Keith  that  she  was 
"down  on  him." 

"She's  got  it  in  for  you,"  he  said.  "Says  she's  goin'  to 
drive  you  out  of  Gumbolt." 

"Well,  she  will  not,"  said  Keith,  with  a  flash  in  his  eye. 

"She  is  a  good  friend  and  a  good  foe,"  said  the  editor. 
"Better  go  and  offer  a  pinch  of  incense  to  Diana.  She  is 
worth  cultivating.  You  ought  to  see  her  dance." 

Keith,  however,  had  made  his  decision.  A  girl  with 
eyes  like  dewy  violets  was  his  Diana,  and  to  her  his  incense 
was  offered. 

A  day  or  two  later  Keith  was  passing  down  the  main 
street,  when  he  saw  the  young  woman  crossing  over  at  the 
corner  ahead  of  him,  stepping  from  one  stone  to  another 
quite  daintily.  She  was  holding  up  her  skirt,  and  showed 
a  very  neat  pair  of  feet  in  perfectly  fitting  boots.  At  the 
crossing  she  stopped.  As  Keith  passed  her,  he  glanced  at 
her,  and  caught  her  eye  fastened  on  him.  She  did  not  look 
away  at  all,  and  Keith  inclined  his  head  in  recognition  of 
their  former  meeting. 

"Good  morning,"  she  said. 

140 


"Then  why  don't  you  answer  me?" 


GUMBOLT 

"Good  morning."  Keith  lifted  his  hat  and  was  pass 
ing  on. 

"Why  haven't  you  been  to  see  me?"  she  demanded. 

Keith  pretended  not  to  hear. 

"I  thought  I  invited  you  to  come  and  see  me?" 

Still,  Keith  did  not  answer,  but  he  paused.  His  head 
was  averted,  and  he  was  waiting  until  she  ceased  speaking 
to  go  on. 

Suddenly,  to  his  surprise,  she  bounded  in  front  of  him 
and  squared  her  straight  figure  right  before  him. 

"Did  you  hear  what  I  said  to  you?"  she  demanded  tem 
pestuously. 

"Yes." 

"Then  why  don't  you  answer  me?"  Her  gaze  was  fast 
ened  on  his  face.  Her  cheeks  were  flushed,  her  voice  was 
imperative,  and  her  eyes  flashed. 

"Because  I  didn't  wish  to  do  so,"  said  Keith,  calmly. 

Suddenly  she  flamed  out  and  poured  at  him  a  torrent  of 
vigorous  oaths.  He  was  so  taken  by  surprise  that  he  forgot 
to  do  anything  but  wonder,  and  his  calmness  evidently 
daunted  her. 

"Don't  you  know  that  when  a  lady  invites  you  to  come 
to  see  her,  you  have  to  do  it  ?  " 

"I  have  heard  that,"  said  Keith,  beginning  to  look 
amused. 

"You  have?     Do  you  mean  to  say  I  am  not  a  lady ? " 

"Well,  from  your  conversation,  I  might  suppose  you  were 
a  man,"  said  Keith,  half  laughing. 

"I  will  show  you  that  I  am  man  enough  for  you.  Don't 
you  know  I  am  the  boss  of  this  town,  and  that  when  I  tell 
you  to  do  a  thing  you  have  to  obey  me  ?  " 

"No  j  I  do  not  know  that,"  said  Keith.  "You  may  be 
the  boss  of  this  town,  but  I  don't  have  to  obey  you." 

"Well,  I  will  show  you  about  it,  and quick,  too. 

See  if  I  don't !     I  will  run  you  out  of  this  town,  my  young 
man." 

"Oh,  I  don't  think  you  will,"  said  Keith,  easily. 

141 


GORDON   KEITH 

"Yes,  I  will,  and  quick  enough,  too.  You  look  out 
for  me." 

"Good  morning/'  said  Keith,  raising  his  hat. 

The  loudness  of  her  tone  and  the  vehemence  of  her  man 
ner  had  arrested  several  passers-by,  who  now  stood  looking 
on  with  interest. 

"What's  the  matter,  Terpy?"  asked  one  of  them. 
"What  are  you  so  peppery  about?  Bank  busted?  " 

The  young  woman  explained  the  matter  with  more  fair 
ness  than  Keith  would  have  supposed. 

"Oh,  he  is  just  a  fool.  Let  him  alone,"  said  the  man  ; 
whilst  another  added :  "He'll  come  around,  darlin' ;  don't 
you  bother  ;  and  if  he  don't,  I  will." 

" him !  He's  got  to  go.  I  won't  let  him  now. 

You  know  when  I  say  a  thing  it's  got  to  be,  and  I  mean  to 
make  him  know  it,  too,"  asserted  the  young  Amazon.  "I'll 
have  him  driven  out  of  town,  and  if  there  ain't  any  one 
here  that's  man  enough  to  do  it,  I'll  do  it  myself."  This 
declaration  she  framed  with  an  imprecation  sufficiently 
strong  if  an  oath  could  make  it  so. 

That  evening  Tim  Gilsey  came  in  to  see  Keith.  He 
looked  rather  grave. 

"I  am  sorry  you  did  not  drop  in,  if  it  was  for  no  more 
than  to  git  supper,"  he  said.  "Terpy  is  a  bad  one  to  have 
against  you.  She's  the  kindest  gal  in  the  world  ;  but  she's 
got  a  temper,  and  when  a  gal's  got  a  temper,  she's  worse' n 
a  fractious  leader." 

"I  don't  want  her  against  me ;  but  I'll  be  hanged  if  I 
will  be  driven  into  going  anywhere  that  I  don't  want  to 
go,"  asserted  Keith. 

"No,  I  don't  say  as  you  should,"  said  the  old  driver,  his 
eye  resting  on  Keith  with  a  look  that  showed  that  he  liked 
him  none  the  less  for  his  pluck.  "But  you've  got  to  look 
out.  This  ain't  back  in  the  settlements,  and  there's  a 
plenty  around  here  as  would  cut  your  throat  for  a  wink  of 
Terpy's  eye.  They  will  give  you  a  shake  for  it,  and  if  ypu 
come  out  of  that  safe  it  will  be  all  right.  I'll  see  one  or 

142 


GUMBOLT 

two  of  the  boys  and  see  that  they  don't  let  'em  double  up 
on  you.  A  horse  can't  do  nothin'  long  if  he  has  got  a 
double  load  on  him,  no  matter  what  he  is." 

Tim  strolled  out,  and,  though  Keith  did  not  know  it  for 
some  time,  he  put  in  a  word  for  him  in  one  or  two  places 
which  stood  him  in  good  stead  afterwards. 

The  following  day  a  stranger  came  up  to  Keith.  He 
was  a  thin  man  between  youth  and  middle  age,  with  a  long 
face  and  a  deep  voice,  and  light  hair  that  stuck  up  on  his 
head.  His  eyes  were  deep-set  and  clear ;  his  mouth  was 
grave  and  his  chin  strong.  He  wore  a  rusty  black  coat 
and  short,  dark  trousers. 

"Are  you  Mr.  Keith?"  His  voice  was  deep  and  melan 
choly. 

Keith  bowed.  He  could  not  decide  what  the  stranger 
was.  The  short  trousers  inclined  him  to  the  church. 

"I  am  proud  to  know  you,  sir.  I  am  Mr.  Drummond, 
the  Methodist  preacher."  He  gripped  Keith's  hand. 

Keith  expressed  the  pleasure  he  had  in  meeting  him. 

"Yes,  sir  j  I  am  proud  to  know  you,"  repeated  Mr. 
Drummond.  "I  hear  you  have  come  out  on  the  right 
side,  and  have  given  a  righteous  reproof  to  that  wretched 
dancing  Jezebel  who  is  trying  to  destroy  the  souls  of  the 
young  men  of  this  town." 

Keith  said  that  he  was  not  aware  that  he  had  done  any 
thing  of  the  kind.  As  to  destroying  the  young  men, 
he  doubted  if  they  could  be  injured  by  her— certainly 
not  by  dancing.  In  any  event,  he  did  not  merit  his 
praise. 

Mr.  Drummond  shook  his  head.  "Yes,  sir.  You  are 
the  first  young  man  who  has  had  the  courage  to  withstand 
the  wiles  of  that  person.  She  is  the  most  abandoned 
creature  in  this  town ;  she  beguiles  the  men  so  that  I  can 
make  no  impression  on  them.  Even  when  I  am  holding 
my  meetings,  I  can  hear  the  strains  of  her  fiddles  and  the 
shouts  of  the  ribald  followers  that  throng  her  den-of-Satan. 
I  have  tried  to  get  her  to  leave,  but  she  will  not  go." 

143 


GORDON  KEITH 

Keith's  reply  was  that  he  thought  she  had  as  much  right 
there  as  any  one,  and  he  doubted  if  there  were  any  way  to 
meet  the  difficulty. 

"I  am  sorry  to  hear  you  say  that,"  said  the  preacher. 
"I  shall  break  up  her  sink  of  iniquity  if  I  have  to  hold  a 
revival  meeting  at  her  very  door  and  call  down  brimstone 
and  fire  upon  her  den  of  wickedness." 

"If  you  felt  so  on  the  subject  of  dancing,  why  did  you 
come  here?"  demanded  Keith.  "It  seems  to  me  that 
dancing  is  one  of  the  least  sins  of  Gumbolt." 

The  preacher  looked  at  him  almost  pensively.  "I 
thought  it  my  duty.  I  have  encountered  ridicule  and 
obloquy  5  but  I  do  not  mind  them.  I  count  them  but 
dross.  '  Wherever  I  have  found  the  print  of  my  Lord's 
shoe  in  the  earth,  there  I  have  coveted  to  set  my  feet  also.'  " 

Keith  bowed.  The  speech  of  Mr.  Valiant-for-Truth 
carried  its  cachet  with  it.  The  stiff,  awkward  figure  had 
changed.  The  preacher's  sincerity  had  lent  him  dignity, 
and  his  simple  use  of  a  simple  tinker's  words  had  sud 
denly  uplifted  him  to  a  higher  plane. 

"Do  not  you  think  you  might  go  about  it  in  a  less  un 
compromising  spirit?  You  might  succeed  better  and  do 
more  good,"  said  Keith. 

"No,  sir;  I  will  make  no  compromise  with  the  devil— 
not  even  to  succeed.  Good-by.  I  am  sorry  to  find  you 
among  the  obdurate."  As  he  shook  hands,  his  jaw  was  set 
fast  and  his  eye  was  burning.  He  strode  off  with  the  step 
of  a  soldier  advancing  in  battle. 

Keith  had  not  long  to  wait  to  test  old  Gilsey's  advice. 
He  was  sitting  in  the  public  room  of  the  Windsor,  a  few 
evenings  later,  among  the  motley  crew  that  thronged  that 
popular  resort,  who  were  discoursing  of  many  things,  from 
J.  Quincy  Plume's  last  editorial  on  "The  New  Fanny  Elss- 
ler,"  to  the  future  of  Gumbolt,  when  Mr.  Plume  himself 
entered.  His  appearance  was  the  signal  for  some  humor, 
for  Mr.  Plume  had  long  passed  the  time  when  any  one  but 
himself  took  him  seriously. 

144 


GUMBOLT 

"Here  comes  somebody  that  can  tell  us  the  news/'  called 
some  one.  "Come  in,  J.  Quincy,  and  tell  us  what  you  know." 

"That  would  take  too  long/7  said  Mr.  Plume,  as  he  edged 
himself  toward  the  stove.  "You  will  find  all  the  news  in 
the  Whistle  to-morrow." 

Just  then  another  new  arrival,  who  had  pushed  his 
way  in  toward  the  stove,  said :  "I  will  tell  you  a  piece  of 
news  :  Bill  Bluffy  is  back." 

"Come  back,  has  he?"  observed  one  of  the  company. 
"Well,  that  is  more  interesting  to  J.  Quincy  than  if  the 
railroad  had  come.  They  are  hated  rivals.  Since  J. 
Quincy  has  taken  to  writing  editorials  on  Terpy,  Bill  says 
there  ain't  no  show  for  him.  He  threatened  to  kill  Terp, 
I  heard." 

"Oh,  I  guess  he  has  got  more  sense  than  that,  drunk 
or  sober.  He  had  better  stick  to  men  $  shootin'  of  women 
ain't  popular  in  most  parts,  an'  it  ain't  likely  to  get 
fashionable  in  Gumbolt,  I  reckon." 

"He  is  huntin'  for  somebody,"  said  the  newcomer. 

"I  guess  if  he  is  going  to  get  after  all  of  Terpy 's  ardent 
admirers,  he  will  have  his  hands  pretty  full,"  observed 
Mr.  Plume— a  sentiment  which  appeared  to  meet  with 
general  approval. 

Just  then  the  door  opened  a  little  roughly,  and  a  man 
entered  slowly  whom  Keith  knew  intuitively  to  be  Mr. 
Bill  Bluffy  himself.  He  was  a  young,  brown -bearded  man, 
about  Keith's  size,  but  more  stockily  built;  his  flannel 
shirt  was  laced  up  in  front,  and  had  a  full,  broad  collar 
turned  over  a  red  necktie  with  long  ends.  His  slouch- 
hat  was  set  on  the  back  of  his  head.  The  gleaming  butts 
of  two  pistols  that  peeped  out  of  his  waistband  gave  a 
touch  of  piquancy  to  his  appearance.  His  black  eyes  were 
restless  and  sparkling  with  excitement.  He  wavered 
slightly  in  his  gait,  and  his  speech  was  just  thick  enough 
to  confirm  what  his  appearance  suggested,  and  what  he 
was  careful  to  declare  somewhat  superfluously,  that  he 

was  "on  a of  a  spree." 

145 


GORDON   KEITH 

"I  am  a-huntin'  for  a furriner  'at  I  promised  to  run 

out  of  town  before  to-morrow  mornin'.  Is  he  in  here?" 
He  tried  to  stand  still,  but  finding  this  difficult,  ad 
vanced. 

A  pause  fell  in  the  conversation  around  the  stove. 
Two  or  three  of  the  men,  after  a  civil  enough  greeting, 
hitched  themselves  into  a  more  comfortable  posture  in 
their  chairs,  and  it  was  singular,  though  Keith  did  not  re 
call  it  until  afterwards,  that  each  of  them  showed  by  the 
movement  a  pistol  on  his  right  hip. 

After  a  general  greeting,  which  in  form  was  nearer  akin 
to  an  eternal  malediction  than  to  anything  else,  Mr.  Bluffy 
walked  to  the  bar.  Resting  himself  against  it,  he  turned, 
and  sweeping  his  eye  over  the  assemblage,  ordered  every 
man  in  the  room  to  walk  up  and  take  a  drink  with  him, 
under  penalties  veiled  in  too  terrific  language  to  be  wholly 
intelligible.  The  violence  of  his  invitation  was  apparently 
not  quite  necessary,  as  every  man  in  the  room  pulled 
back  his  chair  promptly  and  moved  toward  the  bar,  leav 
ing  Keith  alone  by  the  stove.  Mr.  Bluffy  had  ordered 
drinks,  when  his  casual  glance  fell  on  Keith  standing  quietly 
inside  the  circle  of  chairs  on  the  other  side  of  the  stove. 
He  pushed  his  way  unsteadily  through  the  men  clustered 
at  the  bar. 

"Why  in  the don't  you  come  up  and  do  what  I  tell 

you?  Are  you  deaf?" 

"No,"  said  Keith,  quietly;  "but  I'll  get  you  to  ex 
cuse  me." 

"Excuse !  You  aren't  too  good  to  drink  with  me, 

are  you  ?  If  you  think  you  are,  I'll  show  you  pretty  — d 
quick  you  ain't." 

Keith  flushed. 

"Drink  with  him,"  said  two  or  three  men  in  an  under 
tone.  "Or  take  a  cigar,"  said  one,  in  a  friendly  aside. 

"Thank  you,  I  won't  drink,"  said  Keith,  yet  more 
gravely,  his  face  paling  a  little,  "and  I  don't  care  for  a 


cigar." 


146 


GUMBOLT 

"Come  on,  Mr.  Keith/'  called  some  one. 

The  name  caught  the  young  bully,  and  he  faced  Keith 
more  directly. 

"Keith?— Keith  ! "  he  repeated,  fastening  his  eyes  on  him 
with  a  cold  glitter  in  them.  "So  you're  Mr.  Keith,  are 
you?  " 

"That  is  my  name,"  said  Keith,  feeling  his  blood  tin 
gling. 

"Well,  you're  the  man  I'm  a-lookin'  for.  No,  you  won't 

drink  with  me,  'cause  I  won't  let  you,  you ! 

You  are  the that  comes  here  insultin'  a  lady  1 " 

"No  ;  I  am  not,"  said  Keith,  keeping  his  eyes  on  him. 

"You're  a  liar ! "  said  Mr.  Bluffy,  adding  his  usual  ex 
pletives.  "And  you're  the  man  I've  come  back  here 
a-huntin'  for.  I  promised  to  drive  you  out  of  town  to-night 
if  I  had  to  go  to  hell  a-doin'  it." 

His  white-handled  pistol  was  out  of  his  waistband  with 
a  movement  so  quick  that  he  had  it  cocked  and  Keith  was 
looking  down  the  barrel  before  he  took  in  what  had  been 
done.  Quickness  was  Mr.  Blufify's  strongest  card,  and  he 
had  played  it  often. 

Keith's  face  paled  slightly.  He  looked  steadily  over  the 
pistol,  not  three  feet  from  him,  at  the  drunken  creature 
beyond  it.  His  nerves  grew  tense,  and  every  muscle  in 
his  frame  tightened.  He  saw  the  beginning  of  the  grooves 
in  the  barrel  of  the  pistol  and  the  gray  cones  of  the  bullets 
at  the  side  in  the  cylinder  ;  he  saw  the  cruel,  black,  drunken 
eyes  of  the  young  desperado.  It  was  all  in  a  flash.  He 
had  not  a  chance  for  his  life.  Yes,  he  had. 

"Let  up,  Bill,"  said  a  voice,  coaxingly,  as  one  might  to 
soothe  a  wild  beast.  "Don't—" 

"Drop  that  pistol ! "  said  another  voice,  which  Keith 
recognized  as  Dave  Dennison's. 

The  desperado  half  glanced  at  the  latter  as  he  shot  a  volley 
of  oaths  at  him.  That  glance  saved  Keith.  He  ducked 
out  of  the  line  of  aim  and  sprang  upon  his  assailant  at  the 
same  time,  seizing  the  pistol  as  he  went,  and  turning  it  up 

147 


GORDON   KEITH 

just  as  Bluffy  pulled  the  trigger.  The  ball  went  into  the 
remote  corner  of  the  ceiling,  and  the  desperado  was  carried 
off  his  feet  by  Keith's  rush. 

The  only  sounds  heard  in  the  room  were  the  shuffling  of 
the  feet  of  the  two  wrestlers  and  the  oaths  of  the  enraged 
Bluffy.  Keith  had  not  uttered  a  word.  He  fought  like  a 
bulldog,  without  noise.  His  effort  was,  while  he  still 
gripped  the  pistol,  to  bring  his  two  hands  together  behind 
his  opponent's  back.  A  sudden  relaxation  of  the  latter's 
grip  as  he  made  another  desperate  effort  to  release  his 
pistol  favored  Keith,  and,  bringing  his  hands  together,  he 
lifted  his  antagonist  from  his  feet,  and  by  a  dexterous 
twist  whirled  him  over  his  shoulder  and  dashed  him  with 
all  his  might,  full  length  flat  on  his  back,  upon  the  floor. 
It  was  an  old  trick  learned  in  his  boyish  days  and  prac 
tised  on  the  Dennisons,  and  Gordon  had  by  it  ended  many 
a  contest,  but  never  one  more  completely  than  this.  A 
buzz  of  applause  came  from  the  bystanders,  and  more 
than  one,  with  sudden  friendliness,  called  to  him  to  get 
Bluffy's  pistol,  which  had  fallen  on  the  floor.  But  Keith 
had  no  need  to  do  so,  for  just  then  a  stoutly  built  young 
fellow  snatched  it  up.  It  was  Dave  Dennison,  who  had 
come  in  just  as  the  row  began.  He  had  been  following 
up  Bluffy.  The  desperado,  however,  was  too  much  shaken 
to  have  used  it  immediately,  and  when,  still  stunned  and 
breathless,  he  rose  to  his  feet,  the  crowd  was  too  much 
against  him  to  have  allowed  him  to  renew  the  attack, 
even  had  he  then  desired  it. 

As  for  Keith,  he  found  himself  suddenly  the  object  of 
universal  attention,  and  he  might,  had  he  been  able  to  dis 
tribute  himself,  have  slept  in  half  the  shacks  in  the  camp. 

The  only  remark  Dave  made  on  the  event  was  char 
acteristic  : 

"Don't  let  him  git  the  drop  on  you  again." 

The  next  morning  Keith  found  himself,  in  some  sort, 
famous.  "Tacklin'  Bill  Bluffy  without  a  gun  and  cleanin' 
him  up,"  as  one  of  his  new  friends  expressed  it,  was  no 

148 


GUMBOLT 

mean  feat,  and  Keith  was  not  insensible  to  the  applause  it 
brought  him.  He  would  have  enjoyed  it  more,  perhaps, 
had  not  every  man,  without  exception,  who  spoke  of  it 
given  him  the  same  advice  Dave  had  given— to  look  out  for 
Bluffy.  To  have  to  kill  a  man  or  be  killed  oneself  is  not 
the  pleasantest  introduction  to  one's  new  home ;  yet  this 
appeared  to  Keith  the  dilemma  in  which  he  was  placed, 
and  as,  if  either  had  to  die,  he  devoutly  hoped  it  would 
not  be  himself,  he  stuck  a  pistol  in  his  pocket  and  walked 
out  the  next  morning  with  very  much  the  same  feeling  he 
supposed  he  should  have  if  he  had  been  going  to  battle. 
He  was  ashamed  to  find  himself  much  relieved  when  some 
one  he  met  volunteered  the  information  that  Bluffy  had 
left  town  by  light  that  morning. 

"Couldn't  stand  the  racket.  Terpy  wouldn't  even  speak 
to  him.  But  he'll  come  back.  Jest  as  well  tote  your  gun  a 
little  while,  till  somebody  else  kills  him  for  you." 

A  few  mornings  later,  as  Keith  was  going  down  the 
street,  he  met  again  the  "only  decent-lookin'  gal  in  Gum- 
bolt."  It  was  too  late  for  him  to  turn  off,  for  when  he  first 
caught  sight  of  her  he  saw  that  she  had  seen  him,  and  her 
head  went  up,  and  she  turned  her  eyes  away.  He  hoped  to 
pass  without  appearing  to  know  her  ;  but  just  before  they 
met,  she  cut  her  eye  at  him,  and  though  his  gaze  was  straight 
ahead,  she  said,  "Good  morning,"  and  he  touched  his  hat  as 
he  passed. 

That  afternoon  he  met  her  again.  He  was  passing  on 
as  before,  without  looking  at  her,  but  she  stopped  him. 

"Good  afternoon."  She  spoke  rather  timidly,  and  the 
color  that  mounted  to  her  face  made  her  very  handsome. 

He  returned  the  salutation  coldly,  and  with  an  uneasy 
feeling  that  he  was  about  to  be  made  the  object  of  another 
outpouring  of  her  wrath.  Her  intention,  however,  was 
quite  different. 

"I  don't  want  you  to  think  I  set  that  man  on  you ;  it 
was  somebody  else  done  it."  The  color  came  and  went  in 
her  cheeks. 

149 


GORDON   KEITH 

Keith  bowed  politely,  but  preserved  silence. 

"I  was  mad  enough  to  do  it,  but  I  didn't,  and  them  that 
says  I  done  it  lies."  She  flushed,  but  looked  him  straight 
in  the  face. 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  said  Keith,  civilly,  starting  to 
move  on. 

"I  wish  they  would  let  me  and  my  affairs  alone,"  she 
began.  "They're  always  a-talkin'  about  me,  and  I  never 
done  'em  no  harm.  First  thing  they  know,  I'll  give  'em 
something  to  talk  about." 

The  suppressed  fire  was  beginning  to  blaze  again,  and 
Keith  looked  somewhat  anxiously  down  the  street,  wishing 
he  were  anywhere  except  in  that  particular  company.  Jo 
relieve  the  tension,  he  said  : 

"I  did  not  mean  to  be  rude  to  you  the  other  day.  Good 
morning." 

At  the  kind  tone  her  face  changed. 

"I  knew  it.  I  was  riled  that  mornin'  about  another 
thing— some  thin'  what  happened  the  day  before,  about 
Bill,"  she  explained.  "Bill's  bad  enough  when  he's  in 
liquor,  and  I'd  have  sent  him  off  for  good  long  ago  if  they 
had  let  him  alone.  But  they're  always  a-peckin'  and 
a-diggin'  at  him.  They  set  him  on  drinkin'  and  fightin', 
and  not  one  of  'em  is  man  enough  to  stand  up  to  him." 

She  gave  a  little  whimper,  and  then,  as  if  not  trusting 
herself  further,  walked  hastily  away.  Mr.  Gilsey  said  to 
Gordon  soon  afterwards : 

"Well,  you've  got  one  friend  in  Gumbolt  as  is  a  team 
by  herself;  you've  captured  Terp.  She  says  you're  the 
only  man  in  Gumbolt  as  treats  her  like  a  lady." 

Keith  was  both  pleased  and  relieved. 

A  week  or  two  after  Keith  had  taken  up  his  abode  in 
Gumbolt,  Mr.  Gilsey  was  taken  down  with  his  old  enemy, 
the  rheumatism,  and  Keith  went  to  visit  him.  He  found  him 
in  great  anxiety  lest  his  removal  from  the  box  should 
hasten  the  arrival  of  the  railway.  He  unexpectedly  gave 
Keith  evidence  of  the  highest  confidence  he  could  have  in 

150 


GUMBOLT 

any  man.  He  asked  if  he  would  take  the  stage  until  he 
got  well.  Gordon  readily  assented. 

So  the  next  morning  at  daylight  Keith  found  himself 
sitting  in  the  boot,  enveloped  in  old  Tim's  greatcoat,  en 
throned  in  that  high  seat  toward  which  he  had  looked  in 
his  childhood-dreams. 

It  was  hard  work  and  more  or  less  perilous  work,  but 
his  experience  as  a  boy  on  the  plantation  and  at  Squire 
Rawson's,  when  he  had  driven  the  four-horse  wagon,  stood 
him  in  good  stead. 

Old  Tim's  illness  was  more  protracted  than  any  one  had 
contemplated,  and,  before  the  first  winter  was  out,  Gordon 
had  a  reputation  as  a  stage-driver  second  only  to  old  Gilsey 
himself. 

Stage-driving,  however,  was  not  his  only  occupation,  and 
before  the  next  Spring  had  passed,  Keith  had  become  what 
Mr.  Plume  called  "one  of  Gumbolt's  rising  young  sons." 
His  readiness  to  lend  a  hand  to  any  one  who  needed  a 
helper  began  to  tell.  Whether  it  was  Mr.  Gilsey  trying  to 
climb  with  his  stiff  joints  to  the  boot  of  his  stage,  or  Squire 
Rawson's  cousin,  Captain  Turley,  the  sandy-whiskered, 
sandy-clothed  surveyor,  running  his  lines  through  the 
laurel  bushes  among  the  gray  debris  of  the  crumbled  moun 
tain-side  ;  Mr.  Quincy  Plume  trying  to  evolve  new  copy 
from  a  splitting  head,  or  the  shouting  wagon-drivers 
thrashing  their  teams  up  the  muddy  street,  he  could  and 
would  help  any  one. 

He  was  so  popular  that  he  was  nominated  to  be  the  town 
constable,  a  tribute  to  his  victory  over  Mr.  Bluffy. 

Terpy  and  he,  too,  had  become  friends,  and  though  Keith 
stuck  to  his  resolution  not  to  visit  her  "establishment,"  few 
days  went  by  that  she  did  not  pass  him  on  the  street  or 
happen  along  where  he  was,  and  always  with  a  half-abashed 
nod  and  a  rising  color. 


151 


CHAPTER    XII 
KEITH  DECLINES   AN   OFFER 

WITH  the  growth  of  Gumbolt,  Mr.  Wickersham  and 
his  friends  awakened  to  the  fact  that  Squire  Raw- 
son  was  not  the  simple  cattle-dealer  he  appeared  to  be, 
but  was  a  man  to  be  reckoned  with.  He  not  only  held  a 
large  amount  of  the  most  valuable  property  in  the  Gap, 
but  had  as  yet  proved  wholly  intractable  about  disposing 
of  it.  Accordingly,  the  agent  of  Wickersham  &  Company, 
Mr.  Halbrook,  came  down  to  Gumbolt  to  look  into  the 
matter.  He  brought  with  him  a  stout,  middle-aged  Scotch 
man,  named  Matheson,  with  keen  eyes  and  a  red  face,  who 
was  represented  to  be  the  man  whom  Wickersham  &  Com 
pany  intended  to  make  the  superintendent  of  their  mines 
as  soon  as  they  should  be  opened. 

The  railroad  not  having  yet  been  completed  more  than  a 
third  of  the  way  beyond  Eden,  Mr.  Halbrook  took  the  stage 
to  Gumbolt. 

Owing  to  something  that  Mr.  Gilsey  had  let  fall  about 
Keith,  Mr.  Halbrook  sent  next  day  for  Keith.  He  wanted 
him  to  do  a  small  piece  of  surveying  for  him.  With  him 
was  the  stout  Scotchman,  Matheson. 

The  papers  and  plats  were  on  a  table  in  his  room,  and 
Keith  was  looking  at  them. 

"How  long  would  it  take  you  to  do  it?"  asked  Mr.  Hal- 
brook.  He  was  a  short,  alert-looking  man,  with  black 
eyes  and  a  decisive  manner.  He  always  appeared  to  be  in 
a  hurry. 

152 


KEITH   DECLINES    AN    OFFEE 

Keith  was  so  absorbed  that  he  did  not  answer  immedi 
ately,  and  the  agent  repeated  the  question  with  a  little 
asperity  in  his  tone. 

"I  say  how  long  would  it  take  you  to  run  those  lines? " 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Keith,  doubtfully.  "I  see  a  part 
of  the  property  lies  on  the  mountain -side  just  above  and 
next  to  Squire  Kawson's  lands.  I  could  let  you  know 
to-morrow." 

"To-morrow !  You  people  down  here  always  want  to 
put  things  off.  That  is  the  reason  you  are  so  behind  the 
rest  of  the  world.  The  stage-driver,  however,  told  me  that 
you  were  different,  and  that  is  the  reason  I  sent  for 
you." 

Keith  straightened  himself.  "Dr.  Chalmers  said  when 
some  one  praised  him  as  better  than  other  Scotchmen,  6I 
thank  you,  sir,  for  no  compliment  paid  me  at  the  expense 
of  my  countrymen.' "  He  half  addressed  himself  to  the 
Scotchman. 

Matheson  turned  and  looked  him  over,  and  as  he  did  so 
his  grim  face  softened  a  little. 

"I  know  nothing  about  your  doctors,"  said  Mr.  Hal- 
brook  j  "what  I  want  is  to  get  this  work  done.  Why  can't 
you  let  me  know  to-day  what  it  will  cost?  I  have  other 
things  to  do.  I  wish  to  leave  to-morrow  afternoon." 

"Well,"  said  Keith,  with  a  little  flush  in  his  face,  "I  could 
guess  at  it  to-day.  I  think  it  will  take  a  very  short 
time.  I  am  familiar  with  a  part  of  this  property  already, 
and-" 

Mr.  Halbrook  was  a  man  of  quick  intellect ;  moreover, 
he  had  many  things  on  his  mind  just  then.  Among  them 
he  had  to  go  and  see  what  sort  of  a  trade  he  could  make 
with  this  Squire  Kawson,  who  had  somehow  stumbled  into 
the  best  piece  of  land  in  the  Gap,  and  was  now  holding  it 
in  an  obstinate  and  unreasonable  way. 

"Well,  I  don't  want  any  guessing.  I'll  tell  you  what  I 
will  do.  I  will  pay  you  so  much  for  the  job."  He  named 
a  sum  which  was  enough  to  make  Keith  open  his  eyes.  It 

153 


GORDON  KEITH 

was  more  than  he  had  ever  received  for  any  one  piece  of 
work. 

"It  would  be  cheaper  for  you  to  pay  me  by  the  day/' 
Keith  began. 

"Not  much  !  I  know  the  way  you  folks  work  down  here. 
I  have  seen  something  of  it.  No  day-work  for  me.  I  will 
pay  you  so  many  dollars  for  the  job.  What  do  you  say? 
You  can  take  it  or  leave  it  alone.  If  you  do  it  well,  I  may 
have  some  more  work  for  you."  He  had  no  intention  of 
being  offensive  ;  he  was  only  talking  what  he  would  have 
called  "business  "  j  but  his  tone  was  such  that  Keith  an 
swered  him  with  a  flash  in  his  eye,  his  breath  coming  a 
little  more  quickly. 

"Very  well  $  I  will  take  it." 

Keith  took  the  papers  and  went  out.  Within  a  few 
minutes  he  had  found  his  notes  of  the  former  survey  and 
secured  his  assistants.  His  next  step  was  to  go  to  Captain 
Turley  and  take  him  into  partnership  in  the  work,  and 
within  an  hour  he  was  out  on  the  hills,  verifying  former 
lines  and  running  such  new  lines  as  were  necessary.  Spurred 
on  by  the  words  of  the  newcomer  even  more  than  by 
the  fee  promised  him,  Keith  worked  with  might  and  main, 
and  sat  up  all  night  finishing  the  work.  Next  day  he 
walked  into  the  room  where  Mr.  Halbrook  sat,  in  the  com 
pany's  big  new  office  at  the  head  of  the  street.  He  had  a 
roll  of  paper  under  his  arm. 

"Good  morning,  sir."  His  head  was  held  rather  high, 
and  his  voice  had  a  new  tone  in  it. 

Mr.  Wickersham's  agent  looked  up,  and  his  face  clouded. 
He  was  not  used  to  being  addressed  in  so  independent  a  tone. 

"Good  morning.  I  suppose  you  have  come  to  tell  me 
how  long  it  will  take  you  to  finish  the  job  that  I  gave 
you,  or  that  the  price  I  named  is  not  high  enough?" 

"No,"  said  Keith,  "I  have  not.  I  have  come  to  show  you 
that  my  people  down  here  do  not  always  put  things  off  till 
to-morrow.  I  have  come  to  tell  you  that  I  have  done  the 
work.  Here  is  your  survey."  He  unrolled  and  spread 

154 


KEITH  DECLINES  AN   OFFER 

out  before  Mr.  Halbrook's  astonished  gaze  the  plat  he  had 
made.  It  was  well  done,  the  production  of  a  draughtsman 
who  knew  the  value  of  neatness  and  skill.  The  agent's 
eyes  opened  wide. 

"Impossible  !     You  could  not  have  done  it,  or  else  you—  " 

"I  have  done  it,"  said  Keith,  firmly.     "It  is  correct." 

"You  had  the  plat  before?"  Mr.  Halbrook's  eyes  were 
fastened  on  him  keenly.  He  was  feeling  a  little  sore  at 
what  he  considered  having  been  outwitted  by  this 
youngster. 

"I  had  run  certain  of  the  lines  before,"  said  Keith  :  "these, 
as  I  started  to  tell  you  yesterday.  And  now,"  he  said, 
with  a  sudden  change  of  manner,  "I  will  make  you  the 
same  proposal  I  made  yesterday.  You  can  pay  me  what 
you  think  the  work  is  worth.  I  will  not  hold  you  to  your 
bargain  of  yesterday." 

The  other  sat  back  in  his  chair,  and  looked  at  him  with 
a  different  expression  on  his  face. 

"You  must  have  worked  all  night?"  he  said  thought 
fully. 

"I  did,"  said  Keith,  "and  so  did  my  assistant,  but  that  is 
nothing.  I  have  often  done  that  for  less  money.  Many 
people  sit  up  all  night  in  Gumbolt,"  he  added,  with  a  smile. 

"That  old  stage-driver  said  you  were  a  worker."  Mr. 
Halbrook's  eyes  were  still  on  him.  "Where  are  you  from  ?  " 

"Born  and  bred  in  the  South,"  said  Keith. 

"I  owe  you  something  of  an  apology  for  what  I  said  yes 
terday.  I  shall  have  some  more  work  for  you,  perhaps." 

The  agent,  when  he  went  back  to  the  North,  was  as  good 
as  his  word.  He  told  his  people  that  there  was  one  man  in 
Gumbolt  who  would  do  their  work  promptly. 

"And  he's  straight,"  he  said.  "He  says  he  is  from  the 
South ;  but  he  is  a  new  issue." 

He  further  reported  that  old  Rawson,  the  countryman 
who  owned  the  land  in  the  Gap,  either  owned  or  controlled 
the  cream  of  the  coal-beds  there.  "He  either  knows  or  has 

155 


GOKDON  KEITH 

been  well  advised  by  somebody  who  knows  the  value  of  all 
the  lands  about  there.  And  he  has  about  blocked  the  game. 
I  think  it's  that  young  Keith,  and  I  advise  you  to  get  hold 
of  Keith." 

"Who  is  Keith?  What  Keith?  What  is  his  name?" 
asked  Mr.  Wickersham. 

"Gordon  Keith." 

Mr.  Wickersham's  face  brightened.  "Oh,  that  is  all 
right;  we  can  get  him.  We  might  give  him  a  place?" 

Mr.  Halbrook  nodded. 

Mr.  Wickersham  sat  down  and  wrote  a  letter  to  Keith, 
saying  that  he  wished  to  see  him  in  New  York  on  a  matter 
of  business  which  might  possibly  turn  out  to  his  advantage. 
He  also  wrote  a  letter  to  General  Keith,  suggesting  that 
he  might  possibly  be  able  to  give  his  son  employment,  and 
intimating  that  it  was  on  account  of  his  high  regard  for  the 
General. 

That  day  Keith  met  Squire  Kawson  on  the  street.  He 
was  dusty  and  travel-stained. 

"I  was  jest  comin'  to  see  you,"  he  said. 

They  returned  to  the  little  room  which  Keith  called  his 
office,  where  the  old  fellow  opened  his  saddle-bags  and  took 
out  a  package  of  papers. 

"They  all  thought  I  was  a  fool,"  he  chuckled  as  he  laid 
out  deed  after  deed.  "While  they  was  a-talkin'  I  was 
a-ridin'.  They  thought  I  was  buy  in7  cattle,  and  I  was,  but 
for  every  cow  I  bought  I  got  a  calf  in  the  shape  of  the  min 
eral  rights  to  a  tract  of  land.  I'd  buy  a  cow  and  I'd  offer 
a  man  half  as  much  again  as  she  was  worth  if  he'd  sell  me 
the  mineral  rights  at  a  fair  price,  and  he'd  do  it.  He  never 
had  no  use  for  'em,  an'  I  didn't  know  as  I  should  either ; 
but  that  young  engineer  o'  yourn  talked  so  positive  I 
thought  I  might  as  well  git  'em  inside  my  pasture-fence." 
He  sat  back  and  looked  at  Keith  with  quizzical  com 
placency. 

"Come  a  man  to  see  me  not  long  ago," he  continued  ;  "Mr. 
Halbrook — black-eyed  man,  with  a  face  white  and  hard 

156 


KEITH  DECLINES   AN   OFFER 

like  a  tombstone.  I  set  up  and  talked  to  him  nigh  all  night 
and  filled  him  plumb  full  of  old  applejack.  That  man  sized 
me  up  for  a  fool,  an7  I  sized  him  up  for  a  blamed  smart 
Yankee.  But  I  don't  know  as  he  got  much  the  better  of 
me." 

Keith  doubted  it  too. 

"I  think  it  was  in  and  about  the  most  vallyble  applejack 
that  I  ever  owned,"  continued  the  old  landowner,  after  a 
pause.  "  You  know,  I  don't  mind  Yankees  as  much  as  I  used 
to— some  of  'em.  Of  course,  thar  was  Dr.  Balsam  ;  he  was  a 
Yankee  j  but  I  always  thought  he  was  somethin'  out  of  the 
general  run,  like  a  piebald  horse.  That  young  engineer  o' 
yourn  that  come  to  my  house  several  years  ago,  he  give  me 
a  new  idea  about  'em— an'  about  some  other  things,  too. 
He  was  a  very  pleasant  fellow,  an'  he  knowed  a  good  deal, 
too.  It  occurred  to  me  't  maybe  you  might  git  hold  of  him, 
an'  we  might  make  somethin'  out  of  these  lands  on  our  own 
account.  Where  is  he  now?" 

Keith  explained  that  Mr.  Khodes  was  somewhere  in 
Europe. 

"Well,  time  enough.  He'll  come  home  sometime,  an' 
them  lands  ain't  liable  to  move  away.  Yes,  I  likes  some 
Yankees  now  pretty  well ;  but,  Lord  !  I  loves  to  git  ahead 
of  a  Yankee  !  They're  so  kind  o'  patronizin'  to  you.  Well," 
he  said,  rising,  "I  thought  I'd  come  up  and  talk  to  you 
about  it.  Some  day  I'll  git  you  to  look  into  matters  a  leetle 
for  me." 

The  next  day  Keith  received  Mr.  Wickersham's  letter 
requesting  him  to  come  to  New  York.  Keith's  heart  gave 
a  bound. 

The  image  of  Alice  Yorke  flashed  into  his  mind,  as  it 
always  did  when  any  good  fortune  came  to  him.  Many  a 
night,  with  drooping  eyes  and  flagging  energies,  he  had  sat 
up  and  worked  with  renewed  strength  because  she  sat  on 
the  other  side  of  the  hot  lamp. 

It  is  true  that  communication  between  them  had  been 
but  rare.  Mrs.  Yorke  had  objected  to  any  correspondence, 

157 


GORDON   KEITH 

and  he  now  began  to  see,  though  dimly,  that  her  objection 
was  natural.  But  from  time  to  time,  on  anniversaries,  he 
had  sent  her  a  book,  generally  a  book  of  poems  with  marked 
passages  in  it,  and  had  received  in  reply  a  friendly  note 
from  the  young  lady,  over  which  he  had  pondered,  and 
which  he  had  always  treasured  and  filed  away  with  tender 
care. 

Keith  took  the  stage  that  night  for  Eden  on  his  way  to 
New  York.  As  they  drove  through  the  pass  in  the  moon 
light  he  felt  as  if  he  were  soaring  into  a  new  life.  He  was 
already  crossing  the  mountains  beyond  which  lay  the  Italy 
of  his  dreams. 

He  stopped  on  his  way  to  see  his  father.  The  old  gen 
tleman's  face  glowed  with  pleasure  as  he  looked  at  Gordon 
and  found  how  he  had  developed.  Life  appeared  to  be 
reopening  for  him  also  in  his  son. 

"I  will  give  you  a  letter  to  an  old  friend  of  mine,  John 
Templeton.  He  has  a  church  in  New  York.  But  it  is  not 
one  of  the  fashionable  ones  ;  for 

'  Unpractised  he  to  fawn  or  seek  for  power 
By  doctrines  fashioned  to  the  varying  hour : 
Far  other  aims  his  heart  had  learned  to  prize, 
More  skilled  to  raise  the  wretched  than  to  rise. ' 

You  will  find  him  a  safe  adviser.  You  will  call  also  and 
pay  my  respects  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wentworth." 

On  his  way,  owing  to  a  break  in  the  railroad,  Keith  had 
to  change  his  train  at  a  small  town  not  far  from  New  York. 
Among  the  passengers  was  an  old  lady,  simply  and  quaintly 
dressed,  who  had  taken  the  train  somewhere  near  Philadel 
phia.  She  was  travelling  quite  alone,  and  appeared  to  be 
much  hampered  by  her  bags  and  parcels.  The  sight  of  an 
old  woman,  like  that  of  a  little  girl,  always  softened  Keith's 
heart.  Something  always  awoke  in  him  that  made  him  feel 
tender.  When  Keith  first  observed  this  old  lady,  the  entire 
company  was  streaming  along  the  platform  in  that  haste 

158 


KEITH   DECLINES    AN   OFFER 

which  always  marks  the  transfer  of  passengers  from  one 
train  to  another.  No  one  appeared  to  notice  her,  and  under 
the  weight  of  her  bags  and  bundles  she  was  gradually  drop 
ping  to  the  rear  of  the  crowd.  As  Keith,  bag  in  hand,  swung 
past  her  with  the  rest,  he  instinctively  turned  and  offered 
his  services  to  help  carry  her  parcels.  She  panted  her 
thanks,  but  declined  briefly,  declaring  that  she  should  do 
very  well. 

aYou  may  be  doing  very  well,"  Keith  said  pleasantly, 
"but  you  will  do  better  if  you  will  let  me  help  you." 

"No,  thank  you."  This  time  more  firmly  than  before. 
"I  am  quite  used  to  helping  myself,  and  am  not  old  enough 
for  that  yet.  I  prefer  to  carry  my  own  baggage,"  she  added 
with  emphasis. 

"It  is  not  the  question  of  age,  I  hope,  that  gives  me  the 
privilege  of  helping  a  lady,"  said  Keith.  He  was  already 
trying  to  relieve  her  of  her  largest  bag  and  one  or  two 
bundles. 

A  keen  glance  from  a  pair  of  very  bright  eyes  was  shot 
at  him. 

"Well,  I  will  let  you  take  that  side  of  that  bag  and  this 
bundle— no  ;  that  one.  Now,  don't  run  away  from  me." 

"No;  I  will  promise  not,"  said  Keith,  laughing;  and 
relieved  of  that  much  of  her  burden,  the  old  lady  stepped 
out  more  briskly  than  she  had  been  doing.  When  they 
finally  reached  a  car,  the  seats  were  nearly  all  filled.  There 
was  one,  however,  beside  a  young  woman  at  the  far  end,  and 
this  Keith  offered  to  the  old  lady,  who,  as  he  stowed  her 
baggage  close  about  her,  made  him  count  the  pieces  care 
fully.  Finding  the  tale  correct,  she  thanked  him  with  more 
cordiality  than  she  had  shown  before,  and  Keith  withdrew  to 
secure  a  seat  for  himself.  As,  however,  the  car  was  full,  he 
stood  up  in  the  rear  of  the  coach,  waiting  until  some  pas 
sengers  might  alight  at  a  way-station.  The  first  seat  that 
became  vacant  was  one  immediately  behind  the  old  lady, 
who  had  now  fallen  into  a  cheerful  conversation  with  the 
young  woman  beside  her. 

159 


GORDON   KEITH 

"What  do  you  do  when  strangers  offer  to  take  your  bags  ?  " 
Keith  heard  her  asking  as  he  seated  himself. 

"Why,  I  don't  know  5  they  don't  often  ask.  I  never  let 
them  do  it,"  said  the  young  woman,  firmly. 

"A  wise  rule,  too.  I  have  heard  that  that  is  the  way 
nowadays  that  they  rob  women  travelling  alone.  I  had  a 
young  man  insist  on  taking  my  bag  back  there  j  but  I  am 
very  suspicious  of  these  civil  young  men."  She  leaned  over 
and  counted  her  parcels  again.  Keith  could  not  help  laugh 
ing  to  himself.  As  she  sat  up  she  happened  to  glance  around, 
and  he  caught  her  eye.  He  saw  her  clutch  her  companion 
and  whisper  to  her,  at  which  the  latter  glanced  over  her 
shoulder  and  gave  him  a  look  that  was  almost  a  stare. 
Then  the  two  conferred  together,  while  Keith  chuckled 
with  amusement.  What  they  were  saying,  had  Keith  heard 
it,  would  have  amused  him  still  more  than  the  other. 

"There  he  is  now,  right  behind  us,"  whispered  the  old 
lady. 

"Why,  he  doesn't  look  like  a  robber." 

"They  never  do.  I  have  heard  they  never  do.  They 
are  the  most  dangerous  kind.  Of  course,  a  robber  who 
looked  it  would  be  arrested  on  sight." 

"But  he  is  very  good-looking,"  insisted  the  younger 
woman,  who  had,  in  the  meantime,  taken  a  second  glance 
at  Keith,  who  pretended  to  be  immersed  in  a  book. 

"Well,  so  much  the  worse.  They  are  the  very  worst 
kind.  Never  trust  a  good-looking  young  stranger,  my  dear. 
They  may  be  all  right  in  romances,  but  never  in  life." 

As  her  companion  did  not  altogether  appear  to  take  this 
view,  the  old  lady  half  turned  presently,  and  taking  a  long 
look  down  the  other  side  of  the  car,  to  disarm  Keith  of  any 
suspicion  that  she  might  be  looking  at  him,  finally  let  her 
eyes  rest  on  his  face,  quite  accidentally,  as  it  were.  A  mo 
ment  later  she  was  whispering  to  her  companion. 

"I  am  sure  he  is  watching  us.  I  am  going  to  ask  you 
to  stick  close  beside  me  when  we  get  to  New  York  until  I 
find  a  hackney-coach." 

160 


KEITH   DECLINES   AN   OFFER 

"Have  you  been  to  New  York  often?"  asked  the  girl, 
smiling. 

"I  have  been  there  twice  in  the  last  thirty  years  j  but  I 
spent  several  winters  there  when  I  was  a  young  girl.  I 
suppose  it  has  changed  a  good  deal  in  that  time  ?  " 

The  young  lady  also  supposed  that  it  had  changed  in  that 
time,  and  wondered  why  Miss  Brooke — the  name  the  other 
had  given — did  not  come  to  New  York  oftener. 

"You  see,  it  is  such  an  undertaking  to  go  now,"  said  the 
old  lady.  "Everything  goes  with  such  a  rush  that  it  takes 
my  breath  away.  Why,  three  trains  a  day  each  way  pass 
near  my  home  now.  One  of  them  actually  rushes  by  in  the 
most  impetuous  and  disdainful  way.  When  I  was  young  we 
used  to  go  to  the  station  at  least  an  hour  before  the  train 
was  due,  and  had  time  to  take  out  our  knitting  and  compose 
our  thoughts  ;  but  now  one  has  to  be  at  the  station  just  as 
promptly  as  if  one  were  going  to  church,  and  if  you  don't 
get  on  the  train  almost  before  it  has  stopped,  the  dreadful 
thing  is  gone  before  you  know  it.  I  must  say,  it  is  very 
destructive  to  one's  nerves." 

Her  companion  laughed. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  will  think  when  you  get  to  New 
York." 

"Think  !  I  don't  expect  to  think  at  all.  I  shall  just  shut 
my  eyes  and  trust  to  Providence." 

"Your  friends  will  meet  you  there,  I  suppose?" 

"I  wrote  them  two  weeks  ago  that  I  should  be  there  to 
day,  and  then  my  cousin  wrote  me  to  let  her  know  the  train, 
and  I  replied,  telling  her  what  train  I  expected  to  take.  I 
would  never  have  come  if  I  had  imagined  we  were  going 
to  have  this  trouble." 

The  girl  reassured  her  by  telling  her  that  even  if  her 
friends  did  not  meet  her,  she  would  put  her  in  the  way  of 
reaching  them  safely.  And  in  a  little  while  they  drew  into 
the  station. 

Keith's  first  impression  of  New  York  was  dazzling  to  him. 
The  rush,  the  hurry,  stirred  him  and  filled  him  with  a 

161 


GORDON  KEITH 

sense  of  power.     He  felt  that  here  was  the  theatre  of  action 
for  him. 

The  offices  of  Wickersham  &  Company  were  in  one  of  the 
large  buildings  down-town.  The  whole  floor  was  filled  with 
pens  and  railed-off  places,  beyond  which  lay  the  private 
offices  of  the  firm.  Mr.  Wickersham  was  "engaged,"  and 
Keith  had  to  wait  for  an  hour  or  two  before  he  could  secure 
an  interiew  with  him.  When  at  length  he  was  admitted 
to  Mr.  Wickersham's  inner  office,  he  was  received  with  some 
cordiality.  His  father  was  asked  after,  and  a  number  of 
questions  about  Gumbolt  were  put  to  him.  Then  Mr. 
Wickersham  came  to  the  point.  He  had  a  high  regard  for 
his  father,  he  said,  and  having  heard  that  Gordon  was  liv 
ing  in  Gumbolt,  where  they  had  some  interests,  it  had 
occurred  to  him  that  he  might  possibly  be  able  to  give  him 
a  position.  The  salary  would  not  be  large  at  first,  but  if 
he  showed  himself  capable  it  might  lead  to  something 
better. 

Keith  was  thrilled,  and  declared  that  what  he  most  wanted 
was  work  and  opportunity  to  show  that  he  was  able  to  work. 
Mr.  Wickersham  was  sure  of  this,  and  informed  him  briefly 
that  it  was  outdoor  work  that  they  had  for  him— "the 
clearing  up  of  titles  and  securing  of  such  lands  as  we  may 
wish  to  obtain,"  he  added. 

This  was  satisfactory  to  Keith,  and  he  said  so. 

Mr.  Wickersham's  shrewd  eyes  had  a  gleam  of  content 
in  them. 

"Of  course,  our  interest  will  be  your  first  consideration?  " 
he  said. 

"Yes,  sir ;  I  should  try  and  make  it  so." 

"For  instance,"  proceeded  Mr.  Wickersham,  "there  are 
certain  lands  lying  near  our  lands,  not  of  any  special  value  ; 
but  still  you  can  readily  understand  that  as  we  are  running 
a  railroad  through  the  mountains,  and  are  expending  large 
sums  of  money,  it  is  better  that  we  should  control  lands 
through  which  our  line  will  pass." 

Keith  saw  this  perfectly.     "Do  you  know  the  names  of 

162 


KEITH  DECLINES   AN    OFFER 

any  of  the  owners  I "  he  inquired.  "I  am  familiar  with  some 
of  the  lands  about  there." 

Mr.  Wickersham  pondered.  Keith  was  so  ingenuous  and 
eager  that  there  could  be  no  harm  in  coming  to  the  point. 

"Why,  yes  ;  there  is  a  man  named  Rawson  that  has  some 
lands  or  some  sort  of  interest  in  lands  that  adjoin  ours.  It 
might  be  well  for  us  to  control  those  properties." 

Keith's  countenance  fell. 

"It  happens  that  I  know  something  of  those  lands." 

"Yes?  Well,  you  might  possibly  take  those  properties 
along  with  others  t " 

"I  could  certainly  convey  any  proposition  you  wish  to 
make  to  Mr.  Kawson,  and  should  be  glad  to  do  so,"  began 
Keith. 

"We  should  expect  you  to  use  your  best  efforts  to  secure 
these  and  all  other  lands  that  we  wish,"  interrupted  Mr. 
Wickersham,  speaking  with  sudden  sharpness.  "When  we 
employ  a  man  we  expect  him  to  give  us  all  his  services, 
and  not  to  be  half  in  our  employ  and  half  in  that  of  the  man 
we  are  fighting." 

The  change  in  his  manner  and  tone  was  so  great  and  so 
unexpected  that  Keith  was  amazed.  He  had  never  been 
spoken  to  before  quite  in  this  way.  He,  however,  re 
pressed  his  feeling. 

"I  should  certainly  render  you  the  best  service  I  could," 
he  said  ;  "but  you  would  not  expect  me  to  say  anything  to 
Squire  Rawson  that  I  did  not  believe  !  He  has  talked  with 
me  about  these  lands,  and  he  knows  their  value  just  as  well 
as  you  do." 

Mr.  Wickersham  looked  at  him  with  a  cold  light  in  his 
eyes,  which  suddenly  recalled  Ferdy  to  Keith. 

"I  don't  think  that  you  and  I  will  suit  each  other,  young 
man,"  he  said. 

Keith's  face  flushed  ;  he  rose.  "I  don't  think  we  should, 
Mr.  Wickersham.  Good  morning."  And  turning,  he 
walked  out  of  the  room  with  his  head  very  high. 

As  he  passed  out  he  saw  Ferdy.  He  was  giving  some 

163 


GORDON   KEITH 

directions  to  a  clerk,  and  his  tone  was  one  that  made  Keith 
glad  he  was  not  under  him. 

"Haven't  you  any  brains  at  all?"  Keith  heard  him  say. 

"Yes,  but  I  did  not  understand  you."  , 

"Then  you  are  a  fool/'  said  the  young  man. 

Just  then  Keith  caught  his  eye  and  spoke  to  him.  Ferdy 
only  nodded  "Hello  ! "  and  went  on  berating  the  clerk. 

Keith  walked  about  the  streets  for  some  time  before  he 
could  soothe  his  ruffled  feelings  and  regain  his  composure. 
How  life  had  changed  for  him  in  the  brief  interval  since  he 
entered  Mr.  Wickersham's  office  !  Then  his  heart  beat  high 
with  hope  ;  life  was  all  brightness  to  him  ;  Alice  Yorke  was 
already  won.  Now  in  this  short  space  of  time  his  hopes 
were  all  overthrown.  Yet,  his  instinct  told  him  that  if  he 
had  to  go  through  the  interview  again  he  would  do  just  as 
he  had  done. 

He  felt  that  his  chance  of  seeing  Alice  would  not  be  so 
good  early  in  the  day  as  it  would  be  later  in  the  afternoon  ; 
so  he  determined  to  deliver  first  the  letter  which  his  father 
had  given  him  to  Dr.  Templeton. 

The  old  clergyman's  church  and  rectory  stood  on  an  an 
cient  street  over  toward  the  river,  from  which  wealth  and 
fashion  had  long  fled.  His  parish,  which  had  once  taken 
in  many  of  the  well-to-do  and  some  of  the  wealthy,  now 
embraced  within  its  confines  a  section  which  held  only  the 
poor.  But,  like  an  older  and  more  noted  divine,  Dr.  Tem 
pleton  could  say  with  truth  that  all  the  world  was  his  par 
ish  ;  at  least,  all  were  his  parishioners  who  were  needy  and 
desolate. 

The  rectory  was  an  old-fashioned,  substantial  house, 
rusty  with  age,  and  worn  by  the  stream  of  poverty  that 
had  flowed  in  and  out  for  many  years. 

When  Keith  mounted  the  steps  the  door  was  opened  by 
some  one  without  waiting  for  him  to  ring  the  bell,  and  he 
found  the  passages  and  front  room  fairly  filled  with  a  number 
of  persons  whose  appearance  bespoke  extreme  poverty. 

164 


KEITH   DECLINES   AN    OFFER 

The  Doctor  was  "out  attending  a  meeting,  but  would  be 
back  soon,"  said  the  elderly  woman  who  opened  the  door. 
"Would  the  gentleman  wait?" 

Just  then  the  door  opened  and  some  one  entered  hastily. 
Keith  was  standing  with  his  back  to  the  door  ;  but  he  knew 
by  the  movement  of  those  before  him,  and  the  lighting  up 
of  their  faces,  that  it  was  the  Doctor  himself,  even  before 
the  maid  said :  "Here  he  is  now." 

He  turned  to  find  an  old  man  of  medium  size,  in  a  clerical 
dress  quite  brown  with  age  and  weather,  but  whose  linen 
was  spotless.  His  brow  under  his  snow-white  hair  was  lofty 
and  calm ;  his  eyes  were  clear  and  kindly ;  his  mouth  ex 
pressed  both  firmness  and  gentleness ;  his  whole  face  was 
benignancy  itself. 

His  eye  rested  for  a  moment  on  Keith  as  the  servant 
indicated  him,  and  then  swept  about  the  room ;  and  with 
little  more  than  a  nod  to  Keith  he  passed  him  by  and 
entered  the  waiting-room.  Keith,  though  a  little  miffed 
at  being  ignored  by  him,  had  time  to  observe  him  as  he 
talked  to  his  other  visitors  in  turn.  He  manifestly  knew 
his  business,  and  appeared  to  Keith,  from  the  scraps  of 
conversation  he  heard,  to  know  theirs  also.  To  some  he 
gave  encouragement ;  others  he  chided  ;  but  to  all  he  gave 
sympathy,  and  as  one  after  another  went  out  their  faces 
brightened. 

When  he  was  through  with  them  he  turned  and  ap 
proached  Keith  with  his  hands  extended. 

"You  must  pardon  me  for  keeping  you  waiting  so  long ; 
these  poor  people  have  nothing  but  their  time,  and  I  always 
try  to  teach  them  the  value  of  it  by  not  keeping  them 
waiting." 

"Certainly,  sir,"  said  Keith,  warmed  in  the  glow  of  his 
kindly  heart.  "I  brought  a  letter  of  introduction  to  you 
from  my  father,  General  Keith." 

The  smile  that  this  name  brought  forth  made  Keith  the 
old  man's  friend  for  life. 

165 


GOKDON   KEITH 

"Oh  !  You  are  McDowell  Keith's  son.  I  am  delighted 
to  see  you.  Come  back  into  my  study  and  tell  me  all  about 
your  father." 

When  Keith  left  that  study,  quaint  and  old-fashioned  as 
were  it  and  its  occupant,  he  felt  as  though  he  had  been  in 
a  rarer  atmosphere.  He  had  not  dreamed  that  such  a  man 
could  be  found  in  a  great  city.  He  seemed  to  have  the 
heart  of  a  boy,  and  Keith  felt  as  if  he  had  known  him  all 
his  life.  He  asked  Gordon  to  return  and  dine  with  him ; 
but  Gordon  had  a  vision  of  sitting  beside  Alice  Yorke  at 
dinner  that  evening  and  declined. 


166 


CHAPTER    XIII 
KEITH  IN  NEW  YORK 

TT^EITH  and  Norman  Wentworth  had,  from  time  to 
J\.  time,  kept  up  a  correspondence,  and  from  Dr.  Temple- 
ton's  Keith  went  to  call  on  Norman  and  his  mother. 

Norman,  unfortunately,  was  now  absent  in  the  West  on 
business,  but  Keith  saw  his  mother. 

The  Wentworth  mansion  was  one  of  the  largest  and  most 
dignified  houses  on  the  fine  old  square— a  big,  double  man 
sion.  The  door,  with  its  large,  fan-shaped  transom  and  side- 
windows,  reminded  Keith  somewhat  of  the  hall  door  at  El- 
phinstone,  so  that  he  had  quite  a  feeling  of  old  association 
as  he  tapped  with  the  eagle  knocker.  The  hall  was  not 
larger  than  at  Elphinstone,  but  was  more  solemn,  and 
Keith  had  never  seen  such  palatial  drawing-rooms.  They 
stretched  back  in  a  long  vista.  The  heavy  mahogany 
furniture  was  covered  with  the  richest  brocades  ;  the  hang 
ings  were  of  heavy  crimson  damask.  Even  the  walls  were 
covered  with  rich  crimson  damask -satin.  The  floor  was 
covered  with  rugs  in  the  softest  colors,  into  which,  as  Keith 
followed  the  solemn  servant,  his  feet  sank  deep,  giving  him 
a  strange  feeling  of  luxuriousness.  A  number  of  fine  pic 
tures  hung  on  the  walls,  and  richly  bound  books  lay  on  the 
shining  tables  amid  pieces  of  rare  bric-a-brac. 

This  was  the  impression  received  from  the  only  glance 
he  had  time  to  give  the  room.  The  next  moment  a  lady 
rose  from  behind  a  tea-table  placed  in  a  nook  near  a  win 
dow  at  the  far  end  of  the  spacious  room.  As  Gordon  turned 

167 


GORDON   KEITH 

toward  her  she  came  forward.  She  gave  him  a  cordial 
hand-shake  and  gracious  words  of  welcome  that  at  once 
made  Keith  feel  at  home.  Turning,  she  started  to  offer 
him  a  chair  near  her  table ;  but  Keith  had  instinctively 
gone  behind  her  chair  and  was  holding  it  for  her. 

"It  is  so  long  since  I  have  had  the  chance,"  he  said. 

As  she  smiled  up  at  him  her  face  softened.  It  was  a 
high-bred  face,  not  always  as  gentle  as  it  was  now  j  but  her 
smile  was  charming. 

"You  do  not  look  like  the  little,  wan  boy  I  saw  that 
morning  in  bed,  so  long  ago.  Do  you  remember?" 

"I  should  say  I  did.  I  think  I  should  have  died  that 
morning  but  for  you.  I  have  never  forgotten  it  a  mo 
ment  since."  The  rising  color  in  his  cheeks  took  away  the 
baldness  of  the  speech. 

She  bowed  with  the  most  gracious  smile,  the  color  steal 
ing  up  into  her  cheeks  and  making  her  look  younger. 

"I  am  not  used  to  such  compliments.  Young  men  nowa 
days  do  not  take  the  trouble  to  flatter  old  ladies." 

Her  face,  though  faded,  still  bore  the  unmistakable  stamp 
of  distinction.  Calm,  gray  eyes  and  a  strong  mouth  and 
chin  recalled  Norman's  face.  The  daintiest  of  caps  rested 
on  her  gray  hair  like  a  crown,  and  several  little  ringlets 
about  her  ears  gave  the  charm  of  quaintness  to  the  patrician 
face.  Her  voice  was  deep  and  musical.  When  she  first 
spoke  it  was  gracious  rather  than  cordial ;  but  after  the 
inspective  look  she  had  given  him  it  softened,  and  from 
this  time  Keith  felt  her  warmth. 

The  easy,  cordial,  almost  confidential  manner  in  which 
she  soon  began  to  talk  to  him  made  Keith  feel  as  if  they 
had  been  friends  always,  and  in  a  moment,  in  response  to 
a  question  from  her,  he  was  giving  quite  frankly  his  impres 
sion  of  the  big  city  :  of  its  brilliance,  its  movement,  its  rush, 
that  keyed  up  the  nerves  like  the  sweep  of  a  swift  torrent. 

"It  almost  takes  my  breath  away,"  he  said.  "I  feel  as 
if  I  were  on  the  brink  of  a  torrent  and  had  an  irresistible 
desire  to  jump  into  it  and  swim  against  it." 

168 


KEITH   IN   NEW   YORK 

She  looked  at  the  young  man  in  silence  for  a  moment, 
enjoying  his  sparkling  eyes,  and  then  her  face  grew  grave. 

"Yes,  it  is  interesting  to  get  the  impression  made  on 
a  fresh  young  mind.  But  so  many  are  dashed  to  pieces, 
it  appears  to  me  of  late  to  be  a  maelstrom  that  engulfs 
everything  in  its  resistless  and  terrible  sweep.  Fortune, 
health,  peace,  reputation,  all  are  caught  and  swept  away ; 
but  the  worst  is  its  heartlessness— and  its  emptiness." 

She  sighed  so  deeply  that  the  young  man  wondered 
what  sorrow  could  touch  her,  intrenched  and  enthroned  in 
that  beautiful  mansion,  surrounded  by  all  that  wealth  and 
taste  and  affection  could  give.  Years  afterwards,  that 
picture  of  the  old-time  gentlewoman  in  her  luxurious  home 
came  back  to  him. 

Just  then  a  cheery  voice  was  heard  calling  outside  : 

"Cousin!— cousin?— Matildy  Carroll,  where  are  you?" 

It  was  the  voice  of  an  old  lady,  and  yet  it  had  something 
in  it  familiar  to  Keith. 

Mrs.  Wentworth  rose,  smiling. 

"Here  I  am  in  the  drawing-room,"  she  said,  raising  her 
voice  the  least  bit.  "It  is  my  cousin,  a  dear  old  friend  and 
schoolmate,"  she  explained  to  Keith.  "Here  I  am.  Come 
in  here."  She  advanced  to  the  door,  stretching  out  her 
hand  to  some  one  who  was  coming  down  the  stair. 

"Oh,  dear,  this  great,  grand  house  will  be  the  death  of 
me  yet ! "  exclaimed  the  other  lady,  as  she  slowly  descended. 

"Why,  it  is  not  any  bigger  than  yours,"  protested  Mrs. 
Wentworth. 

"It's  twice  as  large,  and,  besides,  I  was  born  in  that  and 
learned  all  its  ups  and  downs  and  passages  and  corners  when 
I  was  a  child,  just  as  I  learned  the  alphabet.  But  this 
house  !  It  is  as  full  of  devious  ways  and  pitfalls  as  the  way 
in  l  Pilgrim's  Progress,'  and  I  would  never  learn  it  any  more 
than  I  could  the  multiplication  table.  Why,  that  second- 
floor  suite  you  have  given  me  is  just  like  six-times-nine. 
When  you  first  put  me  in  there  I  walked  around  to  learn 
my  way,  and,  on  my  word,  I  thought  I  should  never  get 

169 


GORDON   KEITH 

back  to  my  own  room.  I  thought  I  should  have  to  sleep 
in  a  bath-tub.  I  escaped  from  the  bath-room  only  to  land 
in  the  linen-closet.  That  was  rather  interesting.  Then 
when  I  had  calculated  all  your  sheets  and  pillow-cases,  I 
got  out  of  that  to  what  I  recognized  as  my  own  room. 
No  !  it  was  the  broom-closet— eight- times-seven !  That 
was  the  only  familiar  thing  I  saw.  I  could  have  hugged 
those  brooms.  But,  my  dear,  I  never  saw  so  many  brooms 
in  my  life !  No  wonder  you  have  to  have  all  those  ser 
vants.  I  suppose  some  of  them  are  to  sweep  the  other 
servants  up.  But  you  really  must  shut  off  those  apart 
ments  and  just  give  me  one  little  room  to  myself,  or,  now 
that  I  have  escaped  from  the  labyrinth,  I  shall  put  on  my 
bonnet  and  go  straight  home." 

All  this  was  delivered  from  the  bottom  step  with  a  most 
amusing  gravity. 

"Well,  now  that  you  have  escaped,  come  in  here,"  said 
Mrs.  Wentworth,  laughing.  "I  want  a  friend  of  mine  to 
know  you— a  young  man—" 

"A  gentleman !" 

"Yes  ;  a  young  gentleman  from—" 

"My  dear!"  exclaimed  the  other  lady.  "I  am  not  fit 
to  see  a  young  gentleman— I  haven't  on  my  new  cap.  I 
really  could  not." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  can.  Come  in.  I  want  you  to  know  him, 
too.  He  is— m— m— m— " 

This  was  too  low  for  Keith  to  hear.  The  next  second 
Mrs.  Wentworth  turned  and  reentered  the  room,  holding 
by  the  hand  Keith's  old  lady  of  the  train. 

As  she  laid  her  eyes  on  Keith,  she  stopped  with  a  little 
shriek,  shut  both  eyes  tight,  and  clutched  Mrs.  Went- 
worth's  arm. 

"My  dear,  it's  my  robber  ! " 

"It's  what?" 

"My  robber !  He's  the  young  man  I  told  you  of  who 
was  so  suspiciously  civil  to  me  on  the  train.  I  can  never 
look  him  in  the  face— never  ! "  Saying  which,  she  opened 

170 


KEITH   IN   NEW    YORK 

her  bright  eyes  and  walked  straight  up  to  Keith,  holding 
out  her  hand.  "Confess  that  you  are  a  robber  and  save  me." 

Keith  laughed  and  took  her  hand. 

"I  know  you  took  me  for  one."  He  turned  to  Mrs. 
Wentworth  and  described  her  making  him  count  her 
bundles. 

"You  will  admit  that  gentlemen  were  much  rarer  on 
that  train  than  ruffians  or  those  who  looked  like  ruffians  ?  " 
insisted  the  old  lady,  gayly.  "I  came  through  the  car,  and 
not  one  soul  offered  me  a  seat.  You  deserve  all  the  abuse 
you  got  for  being  so  hopelessly  unfashionable  as  to  offer 
any  civility  to  a  poor,  lonely,  ugly  old  woman." 

"  Abby,  Mr.  Keith  does  not  yet  know  who  you  are.  Mr. 
Keith,  this  is  my  cousin,  Miss  Brooke." 

"Miss  Abigail  Brooke,  spinster,"  dropping  him  a  quaint 
little  curtsy. 

So  this  was  little  Lois's  old  aunt,  Dr.  Balsam's  sweetheart 
—the  girl  who  had  made  him  a  wanderer  5  and  she  was 
possibly  the  St.  Abigail  of  whom  Alice  Yorke  used  to  speak  ! 

The  old  lady  turned  to  Mrs.  Wentworth. 

"He  is  losing  his  manners  ;  see  how  he  is  staring.  What 
did  I  tell  you?  One  week  in  New  York  is  warranted  to 
break  any  gentleman  of  good  manners." 

"Oh,  not  so  bad  as  that,"  said  Mrs.  Wentworth.  "Now 
you  sit  down  there  and  get  acquainted  with  each  other." 

So  Keith  sat  down  by  Miss  Brooke,  and  she  was  soon  tell 
ing  him  of  her  niece,  who,  she  said,  was  always  talking  of 
him  and  his  father. 

"Is  she  as  pretty  as  she  was  as  a  child?"  Keith  asked. 

"Yes— much  too  pretty ;  and  she  knows  it,  too,"  smiled 
the  old  lady.  "I  have  to  hold  her  in  with  a  strong  hand, 
I  tell  you.  She  has  got  her  head  full  of  boys  already." 

Other  callers  began  to  appear  just  then.  It  was  Mrs. 
Wentworth's  day,  and  to  call  on  Mrs.  Wentworth  was  in 
some  sort  the  cachet  of  good  society.  Many,  it  was  true, 
called  there  who  were  not  in  "society"  at  all,— serene  and 
self-contained  old  residents,  who  held  themselves  above  the 

171 


GOKDON   KEITH 

newly-rich  who  were  beginning  to  crowd  "the  avenues" 
and  force  their  way  with  a  golden  wedge,— and  many  who 
lived  in  splendid  houses  on  the  avenue  had  never  been  ad 
mitted  within  that  dignified  portal.  They  now  began  to 
drop  in,  elegantly  dressed  women  and  handsomely  ap 
pointed  girls.  Mrs.  Wentworth  received  them  all  with 
that  graciousness  that  was  her  native  manner.  Miss 
Brooke,  having  secured  her  "new  cap,"  was  seated  at  her 
side,  her  faded  face  tinged  with  rising  color,  her  keen  eyes 
taking  in  the  scene  with  quite  as  much  avidity  as  Gordon's. 
Gordon  had  fallen  back  quite  to  the  edge  of  the  group 
that  encircled  the  hostess,  and  was  watching  with  eager 
eyes  in  the  hope  that,  among  the  visitors  who  came  in  in 
little  parties  of  twos  and  threes,  he  might  find  the  face  for 
which  he  had  been  looking.  The  name  Wickersham  pres 
ently  fell  on  his  ear. 

"She  is  to  marry  Ferdy  Wickersham,"  said  a  lady  near 
him  to  another.  They  were  looking  at  a  handsome,  statu 
esque  girl,  with  a  proud  face,  who  had  just  entered  the  room 
with  her  mother,  a  tall  lady  in  black  with  strong  features 
and  a  refined  voice,  and  who  were  making  their  way 
through  the  other  guests  toward  the  hostess.  Mrs.  Went 
worth  greeted  them  cordially,  and  signed  to  the  elder  lady 
to  take  a  seat  beside  her. 

"Oh,  no  ;  she  is  flying  for  higher  game  than  that."  They 
both  put  up  their  lorgnons  and  gave  her  a  swift  glance. 

"You  mean—  f  "  She  nodded  over  toward  Mrs.  Went 
worth. 

"Yes." 

"Wrhy,  she  would  not  allow  him  to.  She  has  not  a  cent 
in  the  world.  Her  mother  has  spent  every  dollar  her  hus 
band  left  her,  trying  to  get  her  off." 

"Yes ;  but  she  has  spent  it  to  good  purpose.  They  are 
old  friends.  Mrs.  Wentworth  does  not  care  for  money. 
She  has  all  she  needs.  She  has  never  forgotten  that  her 
grandfather  was  a  general  in  the  Revolution,  and  Mrs. 
Caldwell's  grandfather  was  one  also,  I  believe.  She  looks 

172 


KEITH   IN   NEW  YOEK 

down  on  the  upper  end  of  Fifth  Avenue— the  Wicker- 
shams  and  such.  Don't  you  know  what  Mrs.  Wentworth's 
cousin  said  when  she  heard  that  the  Wickershams  had  a 
coat-of-arms  !  She  said,  i  Her  father  must  have  made  it.'  " 

Something  about  the  placid  voice  and  air  of  the  lady, 
and  the  knowledge  she  displayed  of  the  affairs  of  others, 
awoke  old  associations  in  Keith,  and  turning  to  take  a 
good  look  at  her,  he  recognized  Mrs.  Nailor,  the  inquir 
ing  lady  with  the  feline  manner  and  bell-like  voice,  who 
used  to  mouse  around  the  verandah  at  Gates's  during  Alice 
Yorke's  convalescence. 

He  went  up  to  her  and  recalled  himself.  She  apparently 
had  some  difficulty  in  remembering  him,  for  at  first  she 
gave  not  the  slightest  evidence  of  recognition ;  but  after 
the  other  lady  had  moved  away  she  was  more  fortunate  in 
placing  him. 

"You  have  known  the  Wentworths  for  some  time? " 

Keith  did  not  know  whether  this  was  a  statement  or  an 
inquiry.  She  had  a  way  of  giving  a  tone  of  interrogation  to 
her  statements.  He  explained  that  he  and  Norman  Went- 
worth  had  been  friends  as  boys. 

"A  dear  fellow,  Norman?"  smiled  Mrs.  Nailor.  "Quite 
one  of  our  rising  young  men?  He  wanted,  you  know,  to 
give  up  the  most  brilliant  prospects  to  help  his  father, 
who  had  been  failing  for  some  time.  Not  failing  finan 
cially  ?  "  she  explained  with  the  interrogation-point  again. 
"Of  course,  I  don't  believe  those  rumors ;  I  mean  in 
health?" 

Keith  had  so  understood  her. 

"Yes,  he  has  quite  gone.  Completely  shattered  ?"  She 
sighed  deeply.  "But  Norman  is  said  to  be  wonderfully 
clever,  and  has  gone  in  with  his  father  into  the  bank?" 
she  pursued.  "The  girl  over  there  is  to  marry  him— if 
her  mother  can  arrange  it?  That  tall,  stuck-up  woman." 
She  indicated  Mrs.  Caldwell,  who  was  sitting  near  Mrs. 
Wentworth.  "Do  you  think  her  handsome? " 

Keith  said  he  did.  He  thought  she  referred  to  the  girl, 

173 


GOKDON   KEITH 

who  looked  wonderfully  handsome  in  a  tailor-made  gown 
under  a  big  white  hat. 

"Romance  is  almost  dying  out?"  she  sighed.  "It  is  so 
beautiful  to  find  it  ?  Yes  ?  " 

Keith  agreed  with  her  about  its  charm,  but  hoped  it  was 
not  dying  out.  He  thought  of  one  romance  he  knew. 

"You  used  to  be  very  romantic?     Yes?  " 

Keith  could  not  help  blushing. 

"Have  you  seen  the  Yorkes  lately?"  she  continued. 
Keith  had  explained  that  he  had  just  arrived.  "You 
know  Alice  is  a  great  belle?  And  so  pretty,  only  she 
knows  it  too  well ;  but  what  pretty  girl  does  not  ?  The 
town  is  divided  now  as  to  whether  she  is  going  to  marry 
Ferdy  Wickersham  or  Mr.  Lancaster  of  Lancaster  &  Com 
pany.  He  is  one  of  our  leading  men,  considerably  older 
than  herself,  but  immensely  wealthy  and  of  a  distinguished 
family.  Ferdy  Wickersham  was  really  in  love  with"  — 
she  lowered  her  voice— "that  girl  over  there  by  Mrs.  Went- 
worth  ;  but  she  preferred  Norman  Wentworth ;  at  least, 
her  mother  did,  so  Ferdy  has  gone  back  to  Alice?  You 
say  you  have  not  been  to  see  her?  No?  You  are  going, 
of  course?  Mrs.  Yorke  was  so  fond  of  you?" 

"Which  is  she  going  to— I  mean,  which  do  people  say 
she  prefers  ?  "  inquired  Keith,  his  voice,  in  spite  of  himself, 
betraying  his  interest. 

"Oh,  Ferdy,  of  course.  He  is  one  of  the  eligibles,  so 
good-looking,  and  immensely  rich,  too.  They  say  he  is 
really  a  great  financier.  Has  his  father's  turn?  You 
know  he  came  from  a  shop  ?  " 

Keith  admitted  his  undeniable  good  looks  and  knew 
of  his  wealth ;  but  he  was  so  confounded  by  the  informa 
tion  he  had  received  that  he  was  in  quite  a  state  of  confu 
sion. 

Just  then  a  young  clergyman  crossed  the  room  toward 
them.  He  was  a  stout  young  man,  with  reddish  hair  and 
a  reddish  face.  His  plump  cheeks,  no  less  than  his  well-- 

174 


KEITH  IN   NEW   YORK 

filled  waistcoat,  showed  that  the  Kev.  Mr.  Eimmon  was 
no  anchoret. 

"Ah,  my  dear  Mrs.  Nailor,  so  glad  to  see  you !  How 
well  you  look  !  I  haven't  seen  you  since  that  charming 
evening  at  Mrs.  Creamer's." 

"Do  you  call  that  charming?  What  did  you  think  of 
the  dinner?"  asked  Mrs.  Nailor,  dryly. 

He  laughed,  and,  with  a  glance  around,  lowered  his 
voice. 

"Well,  the  champagne  was  execrable  after  the  first 
round.  Didn't  you  notice  that?  You  didn't  notice  it? 
Oh,  you  are  too  amiable  to  admit  it.  I  am  sure  you  noticed 
it,  for  no  one  in  town  has  such  champagne  as  you." 

He  licked  his  lips  with  reminiscent  satisfaction. 

"No,  I  assure  you,  I  am  not  flattering  you.  One  of  my 
cloth  !  How  dare  you  charge  me  with  it ! "  he  laughed.  "I 
have  said  as  much  to  Mrs.  Yorke.  You  ask  her  if  I 
haven't." 

"How  is  your  uncle's  health?"  inquired  Mrs.  Nailor. 

The  young  man  glanced  at  her,  and  the  glance  appeared 
to  satisfy  him. 

"Kobust  isn't  the  word  for  it.  He  bids  fair  to  rival  the 
patriarchs  in  more  than  his  piety." 

Mrs.  Nailor  smiled.  "You  don't  appear  as  happy  as  a 
dutiful  nephew  might." 

"But  he  is  so  good— so  pious.  Why  should  I  wish  to 
withhold  him  from  the  joys  for  which  he  is  so  ripe?  " 

Mrs.  Nailor  laughed. 

"You  are  a  sinner,"  she  declared. 

"We  are  all  miserable  sinners,"  he  replied.  "Have  you 
seen  the  Yorkes  lately  ?  " 

"No  ;  but  I'll  be  bound  you  have." 

"What  do  you  think  of  the  story  about  old  Lancaster?" 

"Oh,  I  think  she'll  marry  him  if  mamma  can  arrange  it." 

"< Children,  obey  your  parents,'"  quoted  Mr.  Eimmon, 
with  a  little  smirk  as  he  sidled  away. 

175 


GORDON   KEITH 

"He  is  one  of  our  rising  young  clergymen,  nephew  of 
the  noted  Dr.  Little/7  explained  Mrs.  Nailor.  "You  know 
of  him,  of  course?  A  good  deal  better  man  than  his 
nephew."  This  under  her  breath.  "He  is  his  uncle's 
assistant  and  is  waiting  to  step  into  his  shoes.  He  wants 
to  marry  your  friend,  Alice  Yorke.  He  is  sure  of  his 
uncle's  church  if  flattery  can  secure  it." 

Just  then  several  ladies  passed  near  them,  and  Mrs. 
Nailor,  seeing  an  opportunity  to  impart  further  knowl 
edge,  with  a  slight  nod  moved  off  to  scatter  her  informa 
tion  and  inquiries,  and  Keith,  having  made  his  adieus  to 
Mrs.  Wentworth,  withdrew.  He  was  not  in  a  happy  frame 
of  mind  over  what  he  had  heard. 

The  next  visit  that  Keith  paid  required  more  thought 
and  preparation  than  that  to  the  Wentworth  house.  He  had 
thought  of  it,  had  dreamed  of  it,  for  years.  He  was  seized 
with  a  sort  of  nervousness  when  he  found  himself  actually 
on  the  avenue,  in  sight  of  the  large  brown -stone  mansion 
which  he  knew  must  be  the  abode  of  Miss  Alice  Yorke. 

He  never  forgot  the  least  detail  of  his  visit,  from  the 
shining  brass  rail  of  the  outside  steps  and  the  pompous  little 
hard-eyed  servant  in  a  striped  waistcoat  and  brass  buttons, 
who  looked  at  him  insolently  as  he  went  in,  to  the  same 
servant  as  he  bowed  to  him  obsequiously  as  he  came  out. 
He  never  forgot  Alice  Yorke's  first  appearance  in  the 
radiance  of  girlhood,  or  Mrs.  Yorke's  affable  impervious- 
ness,  that  baffled  him  utterly. 

The  footman  who  opened  the  door  to  Keith  looked  at 
him  with  keenness,  but  ended  in  confusion  of  mind.  He 
stood,  at  first,  in  the  middle  of  the  doorway  and  gave  him 
a  glance  of  swift  inspection.  But  when  Keith  asked  if  the 
ladies  were  in  he  suddenly  grew  more  respectful.  The 
visitor  was  not  up  to  the  mark  in  appointment,  but  there 
was  that  in  his  air  and  tone  which  Bower  recognized.  He 
would  see.  Would  he  be  good  enough  to  walk  in  ? 

When  he  returned  after  a  few  minutes,  indifference  had 
given  place  to  servility. 

176 


KEITH   IN   NEW    YOKK 

Would  Mr.  Keats  please  be  good  enough  to  walk  into 
the  drawing-room?  Thankee,  sir.  The  ladies  would  be 
down  in  a  few  moments. 

Keith  did  not  know  that  this  change  in  bearing  was  due 
to  the  pleasure  expressed  above-stairs  by  a  certain  young 
lady  who  had  flatly  refused  to  accept  her  mother's  suggest 
ion  that  they  send  word  they  were  not  at  home. 

Alice  Yorke  was  not  in  a  very  contented  frame  of  mind 
that  day.  For  some  time  she  had  been  trying  to  make  up 
her  mind  on  a  subject  of  grave  importance  to  her,  and  she 
had  not  found  it  easy  to  do.  Many  questions  confronted 
her.  Curiously,  Keith  himself  had  played  a  part  in  the 
matter.  Strangely  enough,  she  was  thinking  of  him  at  the 
very  time  his  card  was  brought  up.  Mrs.  Yorke,  who  had 
not  on  her  glasses,  handed  the  card  to  Alice.  She  gave  a 
little  scream  at  the  coincidence. 

"Mr.  Keith  !     How  strange  ! " 

"What  is  that?"  asked  her  mother,  quickly.  Her  ears 
had  caught  the  name. 

"Why,  it  is  Mr.  Keith.  I  was  just—."  She  stopped, 
for  Mrs.  Yorke's  face  spoke  disappointment. 

"I  do  not  think  we  can  see  him,"  she  began. 

"Why,  of  course,  I  must  see  him,  mamma.  I  would  not 
miss  seeing  him  for  anything  in  the  world.  Go  down, 
Bower,  and  say  I  will  be  down  directly."  The  servant  dis 
appeared. 

"Now,  Alice,"  protested  her  mother,  who  had  already 
exhausted  several  arguments,  such  as  the  inconvenience  of 
the  hour,  the  impoliteness  of  keeping  the  visitor  waiting, 
as  she  would  have  to  do  to  dress,  and  several  other  such 
excuses  as  will  occur  to  mammas  who  have  plans  of  their 
own  for  their  daughters  and  unexpectedly  receive  the  card 
of  a  young  man  who,  by  a  bare  possibility,  may  in  ten  min 
utes  upset  the  work  of  nearly  two  years— "Now,  Alice,  I 
think  it  very  wrong  in  you  to  do  anything  to  give  that 
young  man  any  idea  that  you  are  going  to  reopen  that  old 
affair." 

177 


GORDON   KEITH 

Alice  protested  that  she  had  no  idea  of  doing  anything 
like  that.  There  was  no  "old  affair."  She  did  not  wish  to 
be  rude  when  he  had  taken  the  trouble  to  call— that  was 
all. 

" Fudge!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Yorke.  "Trouble  to  call! 
Of  course,  he  will  take  the  trouble  to  call.  He  would  call 
a  hundred  times  if  he  thought  he  could  get—"  she  caught 
her  daughter's  eye  and  paused— "could  get  you.  But  you 
have  no  right  to  cause  him  unhappiness." 

"Oh,  I  guess  I  couldn't  cause  him  much  unhappiness 
now.  I  fancy  he  is  all  over  it  now,"  said  the  girl,  lightly. 
"They  all  get  over  it.  It's  a  quick  fever.  It  doesn't  last, 
mamma.  How  many  have  there  been  ?  " 

"You  know  better.  Isn't  he  always  sending  you  books 
and  things?  He  is  not  like  those  others.  "What  would 
Mr.  Lancaster  say  ?  " 

"Oh,  Mr.  Lancaster  !  He  has  no  right  to  say  anything," 
pouted  the  girl,  her  face  clouding  a  little.  "Mr.  Lancaster 
will  say  anything  I  want  him  to  say,"  she  added  as  she 
caught  sight  of  her  mother's  unhappy  expression.  "I  wish 
you  would  not  always  be  holding  him  up  to  me.  I  like 
him,  and  he  is  awfully  good  to  me— much  better  than  I 
deserve  ;  but  I  get  awfully  tired  of  him  sometimes  :  he  is  so 
serious.  Sometimes  I  feel  like  breaking  loose  and  just 
doing  things.  I  do  ! "  She  tossed  her  head  and  stamped 
her  foot  with  impatience  like  a  spoiled  child. 

"Well,  there  is  Ferdy  ?—"  began  her  mother. 

The  girl  turned  on  her. 

"I  thought  we  had  an  understanding  on  that  subject, 
mamma.  If  you  ever  say  anything  more  about  my  marry 
ing  Ferdy,  I  ivill  do  things  !  I  vow  I  will ! " 

"Why,  I  thought  you  professed  to  like  Ferdy,  and  he  is 
certainly  in  love  with  you." 

"He  certainly  is  not.  He  is  in  love  with  Lou  Caldwell 
as  much  as  he  could  be  in  love  with  any  one  but  himself ;  but 
if  you  knew  him  as  well  as  I  do  you  would  know  he  is  not 
in  love  with  any  one  but  Ferdy." 

178 


KEITH   IN    NEW   YORK 

Mrs.  Yorke  knew  when  to  yield,  and  how  to  do  it.  Her 
face  grew  melancholy  and  her  voice  pathetic  as  she  pro 
tested  that  all  she  wished  was  her  daughter's  happiness. 

"Then  please  don't  mention  that  to  ine  again,"  said  the 
girl. 

The  next  second  her  daughter  was  leaning  over  her, 
soothing  her  and  assuring  her  of  her  devotion. 

"I  want  to  invite  him  to  dinner,  mamma." 

Mrs.  Yorke  actually  gasped. 

"Nonsense !  Why,  he  would  be  utterly  out  of  place. 
This  is  not  Bidgely.  I  do  not  suppose  he  ever  had  on  a 
dress-coat  in  his  life ! "  Which  was  true,  though  Keith 
would  not  have  cared  a  button  about  it. 

"Well,  we  can  invite  him  to  lunch,"  said  Alice,  with  a 
sigh. 

But  Mrs.  Yorke  was  obdurate.  She  could  not  undertake 
to  invite  an  unknown  young  man  to  her  table.  Thus,  the 
want  of  a  dress-suit  limited  Mrs.  Yorke's  hospitality  and 
served  a  secondary  and  more  important  purpose  for  her. 

"I  wish  papa  were  here  j  he  would  agree  with  me,"1 
sighed  the  girl. 

When  the  controversy  was  settled  Miss  Alice  slipped  off 
to  gild  the  lily.  The  care  she  took  in  the  selection  of  a 
toilet,  and  the  tender  pats  and  delicate  touches  she  gave 
as  she  turned  before  her  cheval-glass,  might  have  belied  her 
declaration  to  her  mother,  a  little  while  before,  that  she  was 
indifferent  to  Mr.  Keith,  and  might  even  have  given  some 
comfort  to  the  anxious  young  man  in  the  drawing-room 
below,  who,  in  default  of  books,  was  examining  the  pictures 
with  such  interest.  He  had  never  seen  such  a  sumptuous 
house. 

Meantime,  Mrs.  Yorke  executed  a  manoauvre.  As  soon 
as  Alice  disappeared,  she  descended  to  the  drawing-room. 
But  she  slipped  on  an  extra  diamond  ring  or  two.  Thus 
she  had  a  full  quarter  of  an  hour's  start  of  her  daughter. 

The  greeting  between  her  and  the  young  man  was  more 
cordial  than  might  have  been  expected.  Mrs.  Yorke  was 

179 


GOKDON  KEITH 

surprised  to  find  how  Keith  had  developed.  He  had  broad 
ened,  and  though  his  face  was  thin,  it  had  undeniable  dis 
tinction.  His  manner  was  so  dignified  that  Mrs.  Yorke  was 
almost  embarrassed. 

"  Why,  how  you  have  changed  ! "  she  exclaimed. 

What  she  said  to  herself  was  :  "What  a  bother  for  this  boy 
to  come  here  now,  just  when  Alice  is  getting  her  mind  set 
tled  !  But  I  will  get  rid  of  him." 

She  began  to  question  him  as  to  his  plans. 

What  Keith  had  said  to  himself  when  the  step  on  the  stair 
and  the  rustling  gown  introduced  Mrs.  Yorke's  portly  figure 
was  :  "  Heavens  !  it's  the  old  lady  !  I  wonder  what  the  old 
dragon  will  do,  and  whether  I  am  not  to  see  Her  ! "  He 
observed  her  embarrassment  as  she  entered  the  room,  and 
took  courage. 

The  next  moment  they  were  fencing  across  the  room,  and 
Keith  was  girding  himself  like  another  young  St.  George. 

How  was  his  school  coming  on  f  she  asked. 

He  was  not  teaching  any  more.  He  had  been  to  college, 
and  had  now  taken  up  engineering.  It  offered  such  advan 
tages. 

She  was  so  surprised.  She  would  have  thought  teaching 
the  very  career  for  him.  He  seemed  to  have  such  a  gift 
for  it. 

Keith  was  not  sure  that  this  was  not  a  "touch."  He 
quoted  Dr.  Johnson's  definition  that  teaching  was  the  uni 
versal  refuge  of  educated  indigents.  "I  do  not  mean  to 
remain  an  indigent  all  my  life,"  he  added,  feeling  that  this 
was  a  touch  on  his  part. 

Mrs.  Yorke  pondered  a  moment. 

"But  that  was  not  his  name.  His  name  was  Balsam.  I 
know,  because  I  had  some  trouble  getting  a  bill  out  of  him." 

Keith  changed  his  mind  about  the  touch. 

Just  then  there  was  another  rustle  on  the  stair  and  another 
step,— this  time  a  lighter  one,— and  the  next  moment 
appeared  what  was  to  the  young  man  a  vision. 

Keith's  face,  as  he  rose  to  greet  her,  showed  what  he 

180 


KEITH   IN   NEW  YORK 

thought.  For  a  moment,  at  least,  the  dragon  had  disap 
peared,  and  he  stood  in  the  presence  only  of  Alice  Yorke. 

The  girl  was,  indeed,  as  she  paused  for  a  moment  just 
in  the  wide  doorway  under  its  silken  hangings,— the  minx  ! 
how  was  he  to  know  that  she  knew  how  effective  the  posi 
tion  was?— a  picture  to  fill  a  young  man's  eye  and  flood  his 
face  with  light,  and  even  to  make  an  old  man's  eye  grow 
young  again.  The  time  that  had  passed  had  added  to  the 
charm  of  both  face  and  figure  ;  and,  arrayed  in  her  daintiest 
toilet  of  blue  and  white,  Alice  Yorke  was  radiant  enough 
to  have  smitten  a  much  harder  heart  than  that  which  was 
at  the  moment  thumping  in  Keith's  breast  and  looking 
forth  from  his  eager  eyes.  The  pause  in  the  doorway  gave 
just  time  for  the  picture  to  be  impressed  forever  in  Keith's 
mind. 

Her  eyes  were  sparkling,  and  her  lips  parted  with  a  smile 
of  pleased  surprise. 

"How  do  you  do  ?  "  She  came  forward  with  outstretched 
arm  and  a  cordial  greeting. 

Mrs.  Yorke  could  not  repress  a  mother's  pride  at  seeing 
the  impression  that  her  daughter's  appearance  had  made. 
The  expression  on  Keith's  face,  however,  decided  her  that 
she  would  hazard  no  more  such  meetings. 

The  first  words,  of  course,  were  of  the  surprise  Alice  felt 
at  finding  him  there.  "How  did  you  remember  us?  " 

"I  was  not  likely  to  forget  you,"  said  Keith,  frankly 
enough.  "I  am  in  New  York  on  business,  and  I  thought 
that  before  going  home  I  would  see  my  friends."  This  with 
some  pride,  as  Mrs.  Yorke  was  present. 

"Where  are  you  living?" 

Keith  explained  that  he  was  an  engineer  and  lived  in 
Gumbolt. 

"Ah,  I  think  that  is  a  splendid  profession,"  declared  Miss 
Alice.  "If  I  were  a  man  I  would  be  one.  Think  of  build 
ing  great  bridges  across  mighty  rivers,  tunnelling  great 
mountains ! " 

"Maybe  even  the  sea  itself,"  said  Mr.  Keith,  who,  so  long 

181 


GOEDON  KEITH 

as  Alice's  eyes  were  lighting  up  at  the  thought  of  his  pro 
fession,  cared  not  what  Mrs.  Yorke  thought. 

"I  doubt  if  engineers  would  find  much  to  do  in  New 
York,"  put  in  Mrs.  Yorke.  "I  think  the  West  would  be  a 
good  field— the  far  West/'  she  explained. 

"It  was  so  good  in  you  to  look  us  up,"  Miss  Alice  said 
sturdily  and,  perhaps,  a  little  defiantly,  for  she  knew  what 
her  mother  was  thinking. 

"If  that  is  being  good,"  said  Keith,  "my  salvation  is 
assured."  He  wanted  to  say,  as  he  looked  at  her,  "In  all 
the  multitude  in  New  York  there  is  but  one  person  that  I 
really  came  to  see,  and  I  am  repaid,"  but  he  did  not  ven 
ture  so  far.  In  place  of  it  he  made  a  mental  calculation 
of  the  chances  of  Mrs.  Yorke  leaving,  if  only  for  a  moment. 
A  glance  at  her,  however,  satisfied  him  that  the  chance  of  it 
was  not  worth  considering,  and  gloom  began  to  settle  on  him. 
If  there  is  anything  that  turns  a  young  man's  heart  to  lead 
and  encases  it  in  ice,  it  is,  when  he  has  travelled  leagues  to 
see  a  girl,  to  have  mamma  plant  herself  in  the  room  and 
mount  guard.  Keith  knew  now  that  Mrs.  Yorke  had 
mounted  guard,  and  that  no  power  but  Providence  would 
dislodge  her.  The  thought  of  the  cool  woods  of  the  Eidge 
came  to  him  like  a  mirage,  torturing  him. 

He  turned  to  the  girl  boldly. 

"Sha'n't  you  ever  come  South  again? "  he  asked.  "The 
humming-birds  are  waiting." 

Alice  smiled,  and  her  blush  made  her  charming. 

Mrs.  Yorke  answered  for  her.  She  did  not  think  the 
South  agreed  with  Alice. 

Alice  protested  that  she  loved  it. 

"How  is  my  dear  old  Doctor?  Do  you  know,  he  and  I 
have  carried  on  quite  a  correspondence  this  year !  " 

Keith  did  not  know.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he 
envied  the  Doctor. 

"He  is  your— one  of  your  most  devoted  admirers.  The 
last  time  I  saw  him  he  was  talking  of  you." 

182 


KEITH    IN    NEW    YORK 

"What  did  he  say  of  me?  Do  tell  me  ! "  with  exagger 
ated  eagerness. 

Keith  smiled,  wondering  what  she  would  think  if  she 
knew. 

"Too  many  things  for  me  to  tell." 

His  gray  eyes  said  the  rest. 

While  they  were  talking  a  sound  of  wheels  was  heard 
outside,  followed  by  a  ring  at  the  door.  Keith  sat  facing 
the  door,  and  could  see  the  gentleman  who  entered  the 
hall.  He  was  tall  and  a  little  gray,  with  a  pleasant,  self- 
contained  face.  He  turned  toward  the  drawing-room,  tak 
ing  off  his  gloves  as  he  walked. 

"Her  father.  He  is  quite  distinguished-looking,"  thought 
Keith.  "I  wonder  if  he  will  come  in  here?  He  looks 
younger  than  the  dragon."  He  was  in  some  trepidation  at 
the  idea  of  meeting  Mr.  Yorke. 

When  Keith  looked  at  the  ladies  again  some  change  had 
taken  place  in  both  of  them.  Their  faces  wore  a  different 
expression  :  Mrs.  Yorke's  was  one  of  mingled  disquietude  and 
relief,  and  Miss  Alice's  an  expression  of  discontent  and  con 
fusion.  Keith  settled  himself  and  waited  to  be  presented. 

The  gentleman  came  in  with  a  pleased  air  as  his  eye 
rested  on  the  young  lady. 

"There  is  where  she  gets  her  high-bred  looks— from  her 
father,"  thought  Keith,  rising. 

The  next  moment  the  gentleman  was  shaking  hands 
warmly  with  Miss  Alice  and  cordially  with  Mrs.  Yorke. 
And  then,  after  a  pause,— a  pause  in  which  Miss  Alice  had 
looked  at  her  mother,— the  girl  introduced  "Mr.  Lan 
caster."  He  turned  and  spoke  to  Keith  pleasantly. 

"Mr.  Keith  is— an  acquaintance  we  made  in  the  South 
when  we  were  there  winter  before  last,"  said  Mrs.  Yorke. 

"A  friend  of  ours,"  said  the  girl.  She  turned  back  to 
Keith. 

"Tell  me  what  Dr.  Balsam  said." 

"Mr.  Keith  knows  the  Wentworths— I  believe  you  know 

183 


GORDON   KEITH 

the  Wentworths  very  well?"  Mrs.  Yorke  addressed  Mr. 
Keith. 

"  Yes  ;  I  have  known  Norman  since  we  were  boys.  I  have 
met  his  mother,  but  I  never  met  his  father." 

Mrs.  Yorke  was  provoked  at  the  stupidity  of  denying  so 
advantageous  an  acquaintance.  But  Mr.  Lancaster  took 
more  notice  of  Keith  than  he  had  done  before.  His  dark 
eyes  had  a  gleam  of  amusement  in  them  as  he  turned  and 
looked  at  the  young  man.  Something  in  him  recalled  the 
past. 

"From  the  South,  you  say  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir."     He  named  his  State  with  pride. 

"Did  I  catch  your  name  correctly?     Is  it  Keith? " 

"Yes,  sir." 

"I  used  to  know  a  gentleman  of  that  name— General 
Keith." 

"There  were  several  of  them,"  answered  the  young  man, 
with  pride.  "My  father  was  known  as  ' General  Keith  of 
Elphinstone.' " 

"That  was  he.  I  captured  him.  He  was  desperately 
wounded,  and  I  had  the  pleasure  of  having  him  attended 
to,  and  afterwards  of  getting  him  exchanged.  How  is  he  f 
Is  he  still  living?  " 

"Yes,  sir." 

Mr.  Lancaster  turned  to  the  ladies.  "He  was  one  of 
the  bravest  men  I  have  known,"  he  said.  "I  was  once 
a  recipient  of  his  gracious  hospitality.  I  went  South 
to  look  into  some  matters  there,"  he  explained  to  the 
ladies. 

The  speech  brought  a  gratified  look  into  Keith's  eyes. 

Mrs.  Yorke  was  divided  between  her  feeling  of  relief  that 
Mr.  Lancaster  should  know  of  Keith's  social  standing  and 
her  fear  that  such  praise  might  affect  Alice.  After  a  glance 
at  the  girPs  face  the  latter  predominated. 

"Men  have  no  sense  at  all,"  she  said  to  herself.  Had  she 
known  it,  the  speech  made  the  girl  feel  more  kindly  toward 
her  older  admirer  than  she  had  ever  done  before. 

184 


KEITH   IN   NEW  YORK 

Gordon's  face  was  suffused  with  tenderness,  as  it  always 
was  at  any  mention  of  his  father.  He  stepped  forward. 

"May  I  shake  hands  with  you,  sir?"  He  grasped  the 
hand  of  the  older  man.  "If  I  can  ever  be  of  any  service  to 
you— of  the  least  service— I  hope  you  will  let  my  father's 
son  repay  a  part  of  his  debt.  You  could  not  do  me  a  greater 
favor."  As  he  stood  straight  and  dignified,  grasping  the 
older  man's  hand,  he  looked  more  of  a  man  than  he  had  ever 
done.  Mr.  Lancaster  was  manifestly  pleased. 

"I  will  do  so,"  he  said,  with  a  smile. 

Mrs.  Yorke  was  in  a  fidget.  "This  man  will  ruin  every 
thing,"  she  said  to  herself. 

Seeing  that  his  chance  of  seeing  Alice  alone  was  gone, 
Keith  rose  and  took  leave  with  some  stateliness.  At  the 
last  moment  Alice  boldly  asked  him  to  take  lunch  with 
them  next  day. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Keith,  "I  lunch  in  Sparta  to-morrow. 
I  am  going  South  to-night."  But  his  allusion  was  lost  on 
the  ladies. 

When  Keith  came  out,  a  handsome  trap  was  standing  at 
the  door,  with  a  fine  pair  of  horses  and  a  liveried  groom. 

And  a  little  later,  as  Keith  was  walking  up  the  avenue 
looking  at  the  crowds  that  thronged  it  in  all  the  bravery 
of  fine  apparel,  he  saw  the  same  pair  of  high-steppers 
threading  their  way  proudly  among  the  other  teams.  He 
suddenly  became  aware  that  some  one  was  bowing  to  him, 
and  there  was  Alice  Yorke  sitting  up  beside  Mr.  Lancaster, 
bowing  to  him  from  under  a  big  hat  with  great  white 
plumes.  For  one  moment  he  had  a  warm  feeling  about 
his  heart,  and  then,  as  the  turnout  was  swallowed  up  in 
the  crowd,  Keith  felt  a  sudden  sense  of  loneliness,  and  he 
positively  hated  Mrs.  Yorke.  A  little  later  he  passed 
Ferdy  Wickersham,  in  a  long  coat  and  a  high  hat,  walking 
up  the  avenue  with  the  girl  he  had  seen  at  Mrs.  Went- 
worth's.  He  took  off  his  hat  as  they  passed,  but  appar 
ently  they  did  not  see  him.  And  once  more  that 
overwhelming  loneliness  swept  over  him. 

185 


GORDON  KEITH 

He  did  not  get  over  the  feeling  till  lie  found  himself  in 
Dr.  Templeton's  study.  He  had  promised  provision 
ally  to  go  back  and  take  supper  with  the  old  clergyman, 
and  had  only  not  promised  it  absolutely  because  he  had 
thought  he  might  be  invited  to  the  Yorkes'.  He  was  glad 
enough  now  to  go,  and  as  he  received  the  old  gentleman's 
cordial  greeting,  he  felt  his  heart  grow  warm  again.  Here 
was  Sparta,  too.  This,  at  least,  was  hospitality.  He  was 
introduced  to  two  young  clergymen,  both  earnest  fellows 
who  were  working  among  the  poor.  One  of  them  was  a 
High-churchman  and  the  other  a  Presbyterian,  and  once  or 
twice  they  began  to  discuss  warmly  questions  as  to  which 
they  differed ;  but  the  old  Rector  appeared  to  know  just 
how  to  manage  them. 

"Come,  my  boys  ;  no  division  here,"  he  said,  with  a  smile, 
"Remember,  one  flag,  one  union,  one  Commander.  Titus 
is  still  before  the  walls." 


186 


CHAPTER   XIV 
THE   HOLD-UP 

KEITH  returned  home  that  night.     He  now  and  then 
thought  of  Lancaster  with  a  little  misgiving.     It  was 
apparent  that  Mrs.  Yorke  was  his  friend ;  but,  after  all, 
Alice  would  never  think  of  marrying  a  gray-haired  man. 
She  could  not  do  it. 

His  father's  pleasure  when  he  told  him  of  the  stand  he 
had  taken  with  Mr.  Wickersham  reassured  him. 

"You  did  exactly  right,  sir ;  as  a  gentleman  should  have 
done,"  he  said,  as  his  face  lighted  up  with  pride  and  affec 
tion.  "Go  back  and  make  your  own  way.  Owe  no  man 
anything." 

Gordon  went  back  to  his  little  office  filled  with  a  determi 
nation  to  succeed.  He  had  now  a  double  motive  :  he  would 
win  Alice  Yorke,  and  he  would  show  Mr.  Wickersham  who 
he  was.  A  visit  from  Squire  Bawson  not  long  after  he 
returned  gave  him  new  hope.  The  old  man  chuckled  as  he 
told  him  that  he  had  had  an  indirect  offer  from  Wicker 
sham  for  his  land,  much  larger  than  he  had  expected.  It 
had  only  confirmed  him  in  his  determination  to  hold  on. 

"If  it's  worth  that  to  him/7  he  said,  "it's  worth  that  to 
me.  We'll  hold  on  awhile,  and  let  him  open  a  track  for  us. 
You  look  up  the  lines  and  keep  your  eye  on  'em.  Draw 
me  some  pictures  of  the  lands.  I  reckon  Phrony  will  have 
a  pretty  good  patrimony  before  I'm  through."  He  gave 
Keith  a  shrewd  glance  which,  however,  that  young  man  did 
not  see. 

187 


GORDON   KEITH 

Not  long  afterwards  Gordon  received  an  invitation  to 
Norman's  wedding.  He  was  to  marry  Miss  Caldwell. 

When  Gordon  read  the  account  of  the  wedding,  with  the 
church  "banked  with  flowers/7  and  the  bridal  couple  pre 
ceded  by  choristers,  chanting,  he  was  as  interested  as  if  it 
had  been  his  brother's  marriage.  He  tried  to  picture 
Alice  Yorke  in  her  bridesmaid's  dress,  "with  the  old  lace 
draped  over  it  and  the  rosebuds  festooned  about  her." 

He  glanced  around  his  little  room  with  grim  amuse 
ment  as  he  thought  of  the  difference  it  might  make  to  him 
if  he  had  what  Mrs.  Yorke  had  called  "an  establishment." 
He  would  yet  be  Keith  of  Elphinstone. 

One  fact  related  disturbed  him.  Ferdy  Wickersham 
was  one  of  the  ushers,  and  it  was  stated  that  he  and  Miss 
Yorke  made  a  handsome  couple. 

Norman  had  long  ago  forgotten  Ferdy's  unfriendly  action 
at  college,  and  wishing  to  bury  all  animosities  and  start  his 
new  life  at  peace  with  the  whole  world,  he  invited  Ferdy 
to  be  one  of  his  ushers,  and  Ferdy,  for  his  own  reasons, 
accepted.  Ferdy  Wickersham  was  now  one  of  the  most 
talked -of  young  men  in  New  York.  He  had  fulfilled  the 
promise  of  his  youth  at  least  in  one  way,  for  he  was  one  of 
the  handsomest  men  in  the  State.  Mrs.  Wickersham,  in 
whose  heart  defeat  rankled,  vowed  that  she  would  never 
bow  so  low  as  to  be  an  usher  at  that  wedding.  But  her 
son  was  of  a  deeper  nature.  He  declared  that  he  was 
"abundantly  able  to  manage  his  own  affairs." 

At  the  wedding  he  was  one  of  the  gayest  of  the  guests, 
and  he  and  Miss  Yorke  were,  as  the  newspapers  stated^ 
undoubtedly  the  handsomest  couple  of  all  the  attendants. 
No  one  congratulated  Mrs.  Wentworth  with  more  fervid 
words.  To  be  sure,  his  eyes  sought  the  bride's  with  a  curi 
ous  expression  in  them  ;  and  when  he  spoke  with  her  apart 
a  little  later,  there  was  an  air  of  cynicism  about  him  that 
remained  in  her  memory.  The  handsomest  jewel  she  re 
ceived  outside  of  the  Wentworth  family  was  from  him. 
Its  centre  was  a  heart  set  with  diamonds. 

188 


THE   HOLD-UP 

For  a  time  Louise  Wentworth  was  in  the  seventh  heaven 
of  ecstasy  over  her  good  fortune.  Her  beautiful  house,  her 
carriages,  her  gowns,  her  husband,  and  all  the  equipage  of 
her  new  station  filled  her  heart.  She  almost  immediately 
took  a  position  that  none  other  of  the  young  brides  had. 
She  became  the  fashion.  In  Norman's  devotion  she  might 
have  quite  forgotten  Ferdy  Wickersham,  had  Ferdy  been 
willing  that  she  should  do  so.  But  Ferdy  had  no  idea 
of  allowing  himself  to  be  forgotten.  For  a  time  he  paid 
quite  devoted  attention  to  Alice  Yorke ;  but  Miss  Alice 
looked  on  his  attentions  rather  as  a  joke.  She  said  to 
him : 

"Now,  Ferdy,  I  am  perfectly  willing  to  have  you  send 
me  all  the  flowers  in  New  York,  and  go  with  me  to  the 
theatre  every  other  night,  and  offer  me  all  the  flattery  you 
have  left  over  from  Louise  ;  but  I  am  not  going  to  let  it  be 
thought  that  I  am  going  to  engage  myself  to  you  ;  for  I  am 
not,  and  you  don't  want  me." 

"I  suppose  you  reserve  that  for  my  fortunate  rival,  Mr. 
Lancaster?"  said  the  young  man,  insolently. 

Alice's  eyes  flashed.     "At  least  not  for  you." 

So  Ferdy  gradually  and  insensibly  drifted  back  to  Mrs. 
Wentworth.  For  a  little  while  he  was  almost  tragic  ;  then 
he  settled  down  into  a  state  of  cold  cynicism  which  was  not 
without  its  effect.  He  never  believed  that  she  cared  for 
Norman  Wentworth  as  much  as  she  cared  for  him.  He 
believed  that  her  mother  had  made  the  match,  and  deep  in 
his  heart  he  hated  Norman  with  the  hate  of  wounded  pride. 
Moreover,  as  soon  as  Mrs.  Wentworth  was  beyond  him,  he 
began  to  have  a  deeper  feeling  for  her  than  he  had  ever 
admitted  before.  He  set  before  himself  very  definitely 
just  what  he  wanted  to  do,  and  he  went  to  work  about  it 
with  a  patience  worthy  of  a  better  aim.  He  flattered  her 
in  many  ways  which,  experience  had  told  him,  were  effec 
tive  with  the  feminine  heart. 

Ferdy  Wickersham  estimated  Mrs.  Wentworth's  vanity 
at  its  true  value ;  but  he  underestimated  her  uprightness 

189 


GORDON  KEITH 

and  her  pride.  She  was  vain  enough  to  hazard  wreck 
ing  her  happiness ;  but  her  pride  was  as  great  as  her 
vanity. 

Thus,  though  Ferdy  Wickersham  flattered  her  vanity  by 
his  delicate  attentions,  his  patient  waiting,  he  found  him 
self,  after  long  service,  in  danger  of  being  balked  by  her 
pride.  His  apparent  faithfulness  had  enlisted  her  interest ; 
but  she  held  him  at  a  distance  with  a  resolution  which  he 
would  not  have  given  her  credit  for. 

Most  men,  under  such  circumstances,  would  have  retired 
and  confessed  defeat ;  but  not  so  with  Ferdy  Wickersham. 
To  admit  defeat  was  gall  and  wormwood  to  him.  His  love 
for  Louise  had  given  place  to  a  feeling  almost  akin  to  a  de 
sire  for  revenge.  He  would  show  her  that  he  could  conquer 
her  pride.  He  would  show  the  world  that  he  could  hum 
ble  Norman  Wentworth.  His  position  appeared  to  him  im 
pregnable.  At  the  head  of  a  great  business,  the  leader  of  the 
gayest  set  in  the  city,  and  the  handsomest  and  coolest  man 
in  town— he  was  bound  to  win.  So  he  bided  his  time,  and 
went  on  paying  Mrs.  Wentworth  little  attentions  that  he 
felt  must  win  her  in  the  end.  And  soon  he  fancied  that 
he  began  to  see  the  results  of  his  patience.  Old  Mr. 
Wentworth's  health  had  failed  rapidly,  and  Norman  was  so 
wholly  engrossed  in  business,  that  he  found  himself  unable 
to  keep  up  with  the  social  life  of  their  set.  If,  however, 
Norman  was  too  busy  to  attend  all  the  entertainments, 
Ferdy  was  never  too  busy  to  be  on  hand,  a  fact  many  per 
sons  were  beginning  to  note. 

Squire  Rawson's  refusal  of  the  offer  for  his  lands  began 
to  cause  Mr.  Aaron  Wickersham  some  uneasiness.  He  had 
never  dreamed  that  the  old  countryman  would  be  so  in 
tractable.  He  refused  even  to  set  a  price  on  them.  He  "did 
not  want  to  sell,"  he  said. 

Mr.  Wickersham  conferred  with  his  son.  "We  have  got 
to  get  control  of  those  lands,  Ferdy.  We  ought  to  have 
got  them  before  we  started  the  railway.  If  we  wait  till 
we  get  through,  we  shall  have  to  pay  double.  The  best 

190 


THE   HOLD-UP 

thing  is  for  you  to  go  down  there  and  get  them.  You 
know  the  chief  owner  and  you  know  that  young  Keith. 
You  ought  to  be  able  to  work  them.  We  shall  have  to 
employ  Keith  if  necessary.  Sometimes  a  very  small  lever 
will  work  a  big  one." 

"Oh,  I  can  work  them  easy  enough,"  said  the  young 
man ;  "but  I  don't  want  to  go  down  there  just  now— the 
weather's  cold,  and  I  have  a  lot  of  engagements  and  a 
matter  on  hand  that  requires  my  presence  here  now." 

His  father's  brow  clouded.  Matters  had  not  been  going 
well  of  late.  The  Wentworths  had  been  growing  cooler 
both  in  business  and  in  social  life.  In  the  former  it  had 
cost  him  a  good  deal  of  money  to  have  the  Wentworth 
interest  against  him  ;  in  the  latter  it  had  cost  Mrs.  Wicker- 
sham  a  good  deal  of  heart-burning.  And  Aaron  Wicker- 
sham  attributed  it  to  the  fact,  of  which  rumors  had  come 
to  him,  that  Ferdy  was  paying  young  Mrs.  Wentworth 
more  attention  than  her  husband  and  his  family  liked,  and 
they  took  this  form  of  resenting  it. 

"I  do  not  know  what  business  engagement  you  can  have 
more  important  than  a  matter  in  which  we  have  invested 
some  millions  which  may  be  saved  by  prompt  attention  or 
lost.  What  engagements  have  you  ?  " 

"That  is  my  affair,"  said  Ferdy,  coolly. 

"Your  affair!  Isn't  your  affair  my  affair?"  burst  out 
his  father. 

"Not  necessarily.  There  are  several  kinds  of  affairs.  I 
should  be  sorry  to  think  that  all  of  my  affairs  you  had  an 
interest  in." 

He  looked  so  insolent  as  he  sat  back  with  half-closed 
eyes  and  stroked  his  silken,  black  moustache  that  his  father 
lost  his  temper. 

"I  know  nothing  about  your  affairs  of  one  kind,"  he 
burst  out  angrily,  "and  I  do  not  wish  to  know ;  but  I  want 
to  tell  you  that  I  think  you  are  making  an  ass  of  yourself 
to  be  hanging  around  that  Wentworth  woman,  having 
every  one  talking  about  you  and  laughing  at  you." 

191 


GORDON   KEITH 

The  young  man's  dark  face  flushed  angrily. 

"What's  that?"  he  said  sharply. 

"She  is  another  man's  wife.  Why  don't  you  let  her 
alone  !  "  pursued  the  father. 

"For  that  very  reason,"  said  Ferdy,  recovering  his  com 
posure  and  his  insolent  air. 

" it !       Let  the   woman   alone,"   said  his  father. 

"Your  fooling  around  her  has  already  cost  us  the  backing 
of  Wentworth  &  Son— and,  incidentally,  two  or  three  hun 
dred  thousand." 

The  younger  man  looked  at  the  other  with  a  flash  of 
rage.  This  quickly  gave  way  to  a  colder  gleam. 

"Really,  sir,  I  could  not  lower  myself  to  measure  a 

matter  of  sentiment  by  so  vulgar  a  standard  as  your 

money." 

His  air  was  so  intolerable  that  the  father's  patience  quite 
gave  way. 

"Well,  by !  you'd  better  lower  yourself,  or  you'll 

have  to  stoop  lower  than  that.  Creamer,  Crustback  &  Com 
pany  are  out  with  us ;  the  Wentworths  have  pulled  out ; 
so  have  Kestrel  and  others.  Your  deals  and  corners  have 
cost  me  a  fortune.  I  tell  you  that  unless  we  pull  through 
that  deal  down  yonder,  and  unless  we  get  that  railroad  to 
earning  something,  so  as  to  get  a  basis  for  rebonding,  you'll 
find  yourself  wishing  you  had  my  i  damned  money.'  " 

"Oh,  I  guess  we'll  pull  it  through,"  said  the  young  man. 
He  rose  coolly  and  walked  out  of  the  office. 

The  afternoon  he  spent  with  Mrs.  Norman.  He  had  to 
go  South,  he  told  her,  to  look  after  some  large  interests 
they  had  there.  He  made  the  prospects  so  dazzling  that 
she  laughingly  suggested  that  he  had  better  put  a  little  of 
her  money  in  there  for  her.  She  had  quite  a  snug  sum 
that  the  Wentworths  had  given  her. 

"Why  do  not  you  ask  Norman  to  invest  it?  "  he  inquired, 
with  a  laugh. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  He  says  bonds  are  the  proper  in 
vestment  for  women." 

192 


THE  HOLD-UP 

"He  rather  underestimates  your  sex,  some  of  them/7 
said  Wickersham.  And  as  he  watched  the  color  come  in 
her  cheeks,  he  added :  "I  tell  you  what  I  will  do :  I  will 
put  in  fifty  thousand  for  you  on  condition  that  you  never 
mention  it  to  a  soul." 

"I  promise,"  she  said  half  gratefully,  and  they  shook 
hands  on  it. 

That  evening  he  informed  his  father  that  he  would  go 
South.  "I'll  get  those  lands  easy  enough,"  he  said. 

A  few  days  later  Ferdy  Wickersham  got  off  the  train  at 
Eldgely,  now  quite  a  flourishing  little  health-resort,  and  in 
danger  of  becoming  a  fashionable  one,  and  that  afternoon 
he  drove  over  to  Squire  Kawson's. 

A  number  of  changes  had  taken  place  in  the  old  white- 
pillared  house  since  Ferdy  had  been  an  inmate.  New  fur 
niture  of  black  walnut  supplanted,  at  least  on  the  first  floor, 
the  old  horsehair  sofa  and  split-bottomed  chairs  and  pine 
tables ;  a  new  plush  sofa  and  a  new  piano  glistened  in  the 
parlor  ;  large  mirrors  with  dazzling  frames  hung  on  the  low 
walls,  and  a  Brussels  carpet  as  shiny  as  a  bed  of  tulips,  and 
as  stiff  as  the  stubble  of  a  newly  cut  hay-field,  was  on  the  floor. 

But  great  as  were  these  changes,  they  were  not  as  great 
as  that  which  had  taken  place  in  the  young  person  for 
whom  they  had  been  made. 

When  Ferdy  Wickersham  drove  up  to  the  door,  there 
was  a  cry  and  a  scurry  within,  as  Phrony  Tripper,  after  a 
glance  out  toward  the  gate,  dashed  up  the  stairs. 

When  Miss  Euphronia  Tripper,  after  a  half-hour  or 
more  of  careful  and  palpitating  work  before  her  mirror, 
descended  the  old  straight  stairway,  she  was  a  very  different 
person  from  the  round-faced,  plump  school-girl  whom 
Ferdy,  as  a  lad,  had  flirted  with  under  the  apple-trees 
three  or  four  years  before.  She  was  quite  as  different  as 
was  the  new  piano  with  its  deep  tones  from  the  rattling  old 
instrument  that  jingled  and  clanged  out  of  tune,  or  as  the 
cool,  self-contained,  handsome  young  man  in  faultless  attire 
was  from  the  slim,  uppish  boy  who  used  to  strum  on  it.  It 

193 


GORDON    KEITH 

was  a  very  pretty  and  blushing  young  country  maiden  who 
now  entered  quite  accidentally  the  parlor  where  sat  Mr. 
Ferdy  Wickersham  in  calm  and  indifferent  discourse  with 
her  grandfather  on  the  crops,  on  cattle,  and  on  the  effect 
of  the  new  railroad  on  products  and  prices. 

Several  sessions  at  a  boarding-school  of  some  pretension, 
with  ambition  which  had  been  awakened  years  before  un 
der  the  apple-trees,  had  given  Miss  Phrony  the  full  num 
ber  of  accomplishments  that  are  to  be  gained  by  such 
means.  The  years  had  also  changed  the  round,  school -girl 
plumpness  into  a  slim  yet  strong  figure  $  and  as  she  entered 
the  parlor,— quite  casually,  be  it  repeated,— with  a  large 
basket  of  flowers  held  carelessly  in  one  hand  and  a  great 
hat  shading  her  face,  the  blushes  that  sprang  to  her  cheeks 
at  the  wholly  unexpected  discovery  of  a  visitor  quite  aston 
ished  Wickersham. 

"By  Jove !  who  would  have  believed  it ! "  he  said  to 
himself. 

Within  two  minutes  after  she  had  taken  her  seat  on  the 
sofa  near  Wickersham,  that  young  envoy  had  conceived  a 
plan  which  had  vaguely  suggested  itself  as  a  possibility 
during  his  journey  South.  Here  was  an  ally  to  his  hand  ; 
he  could  not  doubt  it ;  and  if  he  failed  to  win  he  would 
deserve  to  lose. 

The  old  squire  had  no  sooner  left  the  room  than  the 
visitor  laid  the  first  lines  for  his  attack. 

Why  was  she  surprised  to  see  him?  He  had  large  in 
terests  in  the  mountains,  and  could  she  doubt  that  if  he  was 
within  a  thousand  miles  he  would  come  by  to  see  her? 

The  mantling  cheeks  and  dancing  eyes  showed  that  this 
took  effect. 

"Oh,  you  came  down  on  business?  That  was  all!  I 
know,"  she  said. 

Wickersham  looked  her  in  the  eyes. 

Business  was  only  a  convenient  excuse.  Old  Halbrook 
could  have  attended  to  the  business ;  but  he  preferred  to 
come  himself.  Possibly  she  could  guess  the  reason  ?  He 

194 


THE   HOLD-UP 

looked  handsome  and  sincere  enough  as  he  leant  over  and 
gazed  in  her  face  to  have  beguiled  a  wiser  person  than 
Phrony. 

She,  of  course,  had  not  the  least  idea. 

Then  he  must  tell  her.  To  do  this  he  found  it  necessary 
to  sit  on  the  sofa  close  to  her.  What  he  told  her  made  her 
blush  very  rosy  again,  and  stammer  a  little  as  she  declared 
her  disbelief  in  all  he  said,  and  was  sure  there  were  the 
prettiest  girls  in  the  world  in  New  York,  and  that  he  had 
never  thought  of  her  a  moment.  And  no,  she  would  not 
listen  to  him— she  did  not  believe  a  word  he  said ;  and— 
yes,  of  course,  she  was  glad  to  see  any  old  friend ;  and  no, 
he  should  not  go.  He  must  stay  with  them.  They  ex 
pected  him  to  do  so. 

So  Ferdy  sent  to  Kidgely  for  his  bags,  and  spent  several 
days  at  Squire  Kawson's,  and  put  in  the  best  work  he  was 
capable  of  during  that  time.  He  even  had  the  satisfaction 
of  seeing  Phrony  treat  coldly  and  send  away  one  or  two 
country  bumpkins  who  rode  up  in  all  the  bravery  of  long 
broad-cloth  coats  and  kid  gloves. 

But  if  at  the  end  of  this  time  the  young  man  could  con 
gratulate  himself  on  success  in  one  quarter,  he  knew  that  he 
was  balked  in  the  other.  Phrony  Tripper  was  heels  over 
head  in  love  with  him  ;  but  her  grandfather,  though  easy 
and  pliable  enough  to  all  outward  seeming,  was  in  a  land- 
deal  as  dull  as  a  ditcher.  Wickersham  spread  out  before 
him  maps  and  plats  showing  that  he  owned  surveys  which 
overlapped  those  under  which  the  old  man  claimed. 

"Don't  you  see  my  patents  are  older  than  yours?" 

"Looks  so,"  said  the  old  man,  calmly.  "But  patents  is 
somethin'  like  folks :  they  may  be  too  old." 

The  young  man  tried  another  line. 

The  land  was  of  no  special  value,  he  told  him ;  he  only 
wanted  to  quiet  their  titles,  etc.  But  the  squire  not  only 
refused  to  sell  an  acre  at  the  prices  offered  him,  he  would 
place  no  other  price  whatever  on  it. 

In  fact,  he  did  not  want  to  sell.  He  had  bought  the  land 

195 


GORDON  KEITH 

for  mountain  pasture,  and  he  didn't  know  about  these  rail 
roads  and  mines  and  such  like.  Phrony  would  have  it 
after  his  death,  and  she  could  do  what  she  wished  with  it 
after  he  was  dead  and  gone. 

"He  is  a  fool ! "  thought  Wickersham,  and  set  Phrony  to 
work  on  him  ;  but  the  old  fellow  was  obdurate.  He  kissed 
Phrony  for  her  wheedling,  but  told  her  that  women-folks 
didn't  understand  about  business.  So  Wickersham  had  to 
leave  without  getting  the  lands. 

The  influx  of  strangers  was  so  great  now  at  Gumbolt  that 
there  was  a  stream  of  vehicles  running  between  a  point 
some  miles  beyond  Eden,  which  the  railroad  had  reached, 
and  Gumbolt.  Wagons,  ambulances,  and  other  vehicles 
of  a  nondescript  character  on  good  days  crowded  the 
road,  filling  the  mountain  pass  with  the  cries  and  oaths 
of  their  drivers  and  the  rumbling  and  rattling  of  their 
wheels,  and  filling  Mr.  Gilsey's  soul  with  disgust.  But 
the  vehicle  of  honor  was  still  "Gilsey's  stage."  It  carried 
the  mail  and  some  of  the  express,  had  the  best  team  in  the 
mountains,  and  was  known  as  the  "reg'lar."  On  bad  nights 
the  road  was  a  little  less  crowded.  And  it  was  a  bad  night 
that  Ferdy  Wickersham  took  for  his  journey  to  Gumbolt. 

Keith  had  been  elected  marshal,  but  had  appointed 
Dave  Dennison  his  deputy,  and  on  inclement  nights  Keith 
still  occasionally  relieved  Tim  Gilsey,  for  in  such  weather 
the  old  man  was  sometimes  too  stiff  to  climb  up  to  his  box. 

"The  way  to  know  people,"  said  the  old  driver  to  him, 
"is  to  travel  on  the  road  with  'em.  There  is  many  a  man 
decent  enough  to  pass  for  a  church  deacon  ;  git  him  on  the 
road,  and  you  see  he  is  a  hog,  and  not  of  no  improved  breed 
at  that.  He  wants  to  gobble  everything"  :  an  observation 
that  Keith  had  some  opportunity  to  verify. 

Terpsichore  appeared  suddenly  to  have  a  good  deal  of 
business  over  in  Eden,  and  had  been  on  the  stage  several 
times  of  late  when  Keith  was  driving  it,  and  almost  always 
took  the  box-seat.  This  had  occurred  often  enough  for 

196 


THE   HOLD-UP 

some  of  his  acquaintances  in  Gumbolt  to  rally  him  about 
it. 

"You  will  have  to  look  out  for  Mr.  Bluffy  again/'  they 
said.  "He's  run  J.  Quincy  off  the  track,  and  he's  still  in 
the  ring.  He's  layin'  low ;  but  that's  the  time  to  watch  a 
mountain  cat.  He's  on  your  track." 

Mr.  Plume,  who  was  always  very  friendly  with  Keith, 
declared  that  it  was  not  Bluffy,  but  Keith,  who  had  run 
him  off  the  track.  "It's  a  case  where  virtue  has  had  its 
reward,"  he  said  to  Keith.  "You  have  overthrown  more 
than  your  enemy,  Orlando.  You  have  captured  the  prize 
we  were  all  trying  for.  Take  the  goods  the  gods  provide, 
and  while  you  live,  live.  The  epicurean  is  the  only  true 
philosopher.  Come  over  and  have  a  cocktail?  No?  Do 
you  happen  to  have  a  dollar  about  your  old  clothes  I  I  have 
not  forgotten  that  I  owe  you  a  little  account;  but  you 
are  the  only  man  of  soul  in  this Gehenna  except  my 
self,  and  I'd  rather  owe  you  ten  dollars  than  any  other 
man  living." 

Keith's  manner  more  than  his  words  shut  up  most  of  his 
teasers.  Nothing  would  shut  up  J.  Quincy  Plume. 

Keith  always  treated  Terpsichore  with  all  the  politeness 
he  would  have  shown  to  any  lady.  He  knew  that  she  was 
now  his  friend,  and  he  had  conceived  a  sincere  liking  for  her. 
She  was  shy  and  very  quiet  when  a  passenger  on  his  stage, 
ready  to  do  anything  he  asked,  obedient  to  any  suggestion 
he  gave  her. 

It  happened  that,  the  night  Wickersham  chose  for  his 
trip  to  Gumbolt,  Keith  had  relieved  old  Gilsey,  and  he 
found  her  at  the  Eden  end  of  the  route  among  his  passen 
gers.  She  had  just  arrived  from  Gumbolt  by  another 
vehicle  and  was  now  going  straight  back.  As  Keith  came 
around,  the  young  woman  was  evidently  preparing  to  take 
the  box-seat.  He  was  conscious  of  a  feeling  of  embarrass 
ment,  which  was  not  diminished  by  the  fact  that  Jake  Den- 
nison,  his  old  pupil,  was  also  going  over.  Jake  as  well  as 
Dave  was  now  living  at  Gumbolt.  Jake  was  in  all  the 

197 


GORDON   KEITH 

splendor  of  a  black  coat  and  a  gilded  watch-chain,  for  he 
had  been  down  to  the  Ridge  to  see  Miss  Euphronia  Tripper. 

It  had  been  a  misty  day,  and  toward  evening  the 
mist  had  changed  into  a  drizzle. 

Keith  said  to  Terpsichore,  with  some  annoyance  : 

"You  had  better  go  inside.     It's  going  to  be  a  bad  night." 

A  slight  change  came  over  her  face,  and  she  hesitated. 
But  when  he  insisted,  she  said  quietly,  "Very  well." 

As  the  passengers  were  about  to  take  their  seats  in  the 
coach,  a  young  man  enveloped  in  a  heavy  ulster  came 
hurriedly  out  of  the  hotel,  followed  by  a  servant  with 
several  bags  in  his  hands,  and  pushed  hastily  into  the 
group,  who  were  preparing  to  enter  the  coach  in  a 
more  leisurely  fashion.  His  hat  partly  concealed  his 
face,  but  something  about  him  called  up  memories  to 
Keith  that  were  not  wholly  pleasant.  When  he  reached 
the  coach  door  Jake  Dennison  and  another  man  were  just 
on  the  point  of  helping  in  one  of  the  women.  The  young 
man  squeezed  in  between  them. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said. 

The  two  men  stood  aside  at  the  polite  tone,  and  the  other 
stepped  into  the  stage  and  took  the  back  seat,  where  he 
proceeded  to  make  himself  comfortable  in  a  corner.  This, 
perhaps,  might  have  passed  but  for  the  presence  of  the 
women.  Woman  at  this  mountain  Eden  was  at  a  pre 
mium,  as  she  was  in  the  first. 

Jake  Dennison  and  his  friend  both  asserted  promptly 
that  there  was  no  trouble  about  three  of  the  ladies  getting 
back  seats,  and  Jake,  putting  his  head  in  at  the  door,  said 
briefly : 

"Young  man,  there  are  several  ladies  out  here.  You  will 
have  to  give  up  that  seat," 

As  there  was  no  response  to  this,  he  put  his  head  in  again. 

"Didn't  you  hear?  I  say  there  are  some  ladies  out  here. 
You  will  have  to  take  another  seat." 

To  this  the  occupant  of  the  stage  replied  that  he  had 
paid  for  his  seat  $  but  there  were  plenty  of  other  seats  that 

198 


THE   HOLD-UP 

they  could  have.  This  was  repeated  on  the  outside,  and 
thereupon  one  of  the  women  said  she  supposed  they  would 
have  to  take  one  of  the  other  seats. 

Women  do  not  know  the  power  of  surrender.  This  sur 
render  had  no  sooner  been  made  than  every  man  outside 
was  her  champion. 

"  You  will  ride  on  that  back  seat  to  Gumbolt  to-night,  or 
I'll  ride  in  Jim  Digger's  hearse.  I  am  layin'  for  him  any 
how."  The  voice  was  Jake  Dennison's. 

"And  I'll  ride  with  him.  Stand  aside,  Jake,  and  let  me 
git  in  there.  I'll  yank  him  out,"  said  his  friend. 

But  Jake  was  not  prepared  to  yield  to  any  one  the 
honor  of  "yanking."  Jake  had  just  been  down  to  Squire 
Kawson's,  and  this  young  man  was  none  other  than  Mr. 
Ferdy  Wickersham.  He  had  been  there,  too. 

Jake  had  left  with  vengeance  in  his  heart,  and  this  was 
his  opportunity.  He  was  just  entering  the  stage  head  fore 
most,  when  the  occupant  of  the  coveted  seat  decided  that 
discretion  was  the  better  part  of  valor,  and  announced  that 
he  would  give  up  the  seat,  thereby  saving  Keith  the  neces 
sity  of  intervening,  which  he  was  about  to  do. 

The  ejected  tenant  was  so  disgruntled  that  he  got  out  of 
the  stage,  and,  without  taking  any  further  notice  of  the 
occupants,  called  up  to  know  if  there  was  a  seat  outside. 

"Yes.  Let  me  give  you  a  hand,"  said  Gordon,  leaning 
down  and  helping  him  up.  "How  are  you?" 

Wickersham  looked  at  him  quickly  as  he  reached  the  boot, 

"Hello!  You  here?"  The  rest  of  his  sentence  was  a 
malediction  on  the  barbarians  in  the  coach  below  and  a 
general  consignment  of  them  all  to  a  much  warmer  place 
than  the  boot  of  the  Gumbolt  stage. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?"    Wickersham  asked. 

"I  am  driving  the  stage." 

"Regularly?"  There  was  something  in  the  tone  and 
look  that  made  Keith  wish  to  say  no,  but  he  said  doggedly  : 

"I  have  done  it  regularly,  and  was  glad  to  get  the  oppor 
tunity." 

199 


GORDON   KEITH 

He  was  conscious  of  a  certain  change  in  Wickersham's 
manner  toward  him. 

As  they  drove  along  he  asked  Wickersham  about  Norman 
and  his  people,  but  the  other  answered  rather  curtly. 

Norman  had  married. 

"Yes."  Keith  had  heard  that.  "He  married  Miss  Cald- 
well,  didn't  he  ?  She  was  a  very  pretty  girl." 

"What  do  you  know  about  her?"  Wickersham  asked. 
His  tone  struck  Keith. 

"Oh,  I  met  her  once.  I  suppose  they  are  very  much  in 
love  with  each  other?" 

Wickersham  gave  a  short  laugh.  "In  love  with  Nor 
man  !  Women  don't  fall  in  love  with  a  lump  of  ice." 

"I  do  not  think  he  is  a  lump  of  ice,"  said  Keith,  firmly. 

Wickersham  did  not  answer  at  first,  then  he  said  sharply  : 

"Well,  she's  worth  a  thousand  of  him.  She  married 
him  for  his  money.  Certainly  not  for  his  brains." 

"Norman  has  brains—  as  much  as  any  one  I  know,"  de 
fended  Keith. 

"You  think  so  ! " 

Keith  remembered  a  certain  five  minutes  out  behind 
the  stables  at  Elphinstone. 

He  wanted  to  ask  Wickersham  about  another  girl  who 
was  uppermost  in  his  thoughts,  but  something  restrained 
him.  He  could  not  bear  to  hear  her  name  on  his  lips.  By 
a  curious  coincidence,  Wickersham  suddenly  said :  "You 
used  to  teach  at  old  Rawson's.  Did  you  ever  meet  a 
girl  named  Yorke— Alice  Yorke?  She  was  down  this  way 
once." 

Keith  said  that  he  had  met  "Miss  Yorke."  He  had  met 
her  at  Ridgely  Springs  and  also  in  New  York.  He  was 
glad  that  it  was  dark,  and  that  Wickersham  could  not  see 
his  face.  "A  very  pretty  girl,"  he  hazarded  as  a  leader, 
now  that  the  subject  was  broached. 

"Yes,  rather.     Going  abroad— title-hunting." 

"I  don't  expect  Miss  Yorke  cares  about  a  title,"  said 
Keith,  stiffly. 

200 


THE   HOLD  UP 

"Mamma  does.  Failing  that,  she  wants  old  Lancaster 
and  perquisites." 

"Who  does?  Why,  Mr.  Lancaster  is  old  enough  to  be 
her  father ! " 

"Pile's  old,  too,"  said  Wickersham,  dryly. 

"She  doesn't  care  about  that  either,"  said  Keith,  shortly. 

"Oh,  doesn't  she  !     You  know  her  mother?" 

"No  ;  I  don't  believe  she  does.  Whatever  her  mother  is, 
she  is  a  fine,  high-minded  girl." 

Ferdy  gave  a  laugh  which  might  have  meant  anything. 
It  made  Keith  hot  all  over.  Keith,  fearing  to  trust  him 
self  further,  changed  the  subject  and  asked  after  the  Raw- 
sons,  Wickersham  having  mentioned  that  he  had  been 
staying  with  them. 

"Phrony  is  back  at  home,  I  believe  ?  She  has  been  off  to 
school.  I  hear  she  is  very  much  improved  ?  " 

"I  don't  know;  I  didn't  notice  her  particularly,"  said 
Wickersham,  indifferently. 

"She  is  very  pretty.  Jake  Dennison  thinks  so,"  laughed 
Keith. 

"Jake  Dennison?     Who  is  he?" 

"He's  an  old  scholar  of  mine.  He  is  inside  now  on  the 
front  seat ;  one  of  your  friends." 

"Oh,  that's  the  fellow  !  I  thought  I  had  seen  him  before. 
Well,  he  had  better  try  some  other  stock,  I  guess.  He  may 
find  that  cornered.  She  is  not  going  to  take  a  clod  like  that." 

Wickersham  went  off  into  a  train  of  reflection. 

"I  say,  Keith,"  he  began  unexpectedly,  "maybe,  you  can 
help  me  about  a  matter,  and  if  so  I  will  make  it  worth 
your  while." 

"About  what  matter?"  asked  Keith,  wondering. 

"Why,  about  that  old  dolt  Rawson's  land.  You  see,  the 
governor  has  got  himself  rather  concerned.  When  he  got 
this  property  up  here  in  the  mountains  and  started  to  build 
the  railroad,  some  of  these  people  here  got  wind  of  it.  That 
fool,  Rhodes,  talked  about  it  too  much,  and  they  bought  up 
the  lands  around  the  old  man's  property.  They  think  the 

201 


GORDON   KEITH 

governor  has  got  to  buy  'em  out.  Old  Rawson  is  the  head 
of  'em.  The  governor  sent  Halbrook  down  to  get  it ;  but 
Halbrook  is  a  fool,  too.  He  let  him  know  he  wanted  to 
buy  him  out,  and,  of  course,  he  raised.  You  and  he  used 
to  be  very  thick.  He  was  talking  of  you  the  other  night." 

"He  and  I  are  great  friends.  I  have  a  great  regard  for 
him,  and  a  much  higher  opinion  of  his  sense  than  you  ap 
pear  to  have.  He  is  a  very  shrewd  man." 

"Shrewd  the  deuce !  He's  an  old  blockhead.  He  has 
stumbled  into  the  possession  of  some  property  which  I  am 
ready  to  pay  him  a  fair  price  for.  He  took  it  for  a  cow- 
pasture.  It  isn't  worth  anything.  It  would  only  be  a  con 
venience  to  us  to  have  it  and  prevent  a  row  in  the  future, 
perhaps.  That  is  the  only  reason  I  want  it.  Besides,  his 

title  to  it  ain't  worth  a ,  anyhow.  We  have  patents 

that  antedate  his.  You  can  tell  him  that  the  land  is  not 
worth  anything.  I  will  give  you  a  good  sum  if  you  get 
him  to  name  a  price  at,  say,  fifty  per  cent,  on  what  he  gave 
for  it.  I  know  what  he  gave  for  it.  You  can  tell  him  it 
ain't  worth  anything  to  him  and  that  his  title  is  faulty." 

"No,  I  could  not,"  said  Keith,  shortly. 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  I  think  it  is  very  valuable  and  his  title  perfect. 
And  he  knows  it." 

Wickersham  glanced  at  him  in  the  dusk. 

"It  isn't  valuable  at  all,"  he  said  after  a  pause.  "I  will 
give  you  a  good  fee  if  you  will  get  through  a  deal  for  it  at 
any  price  we  may  agree  on.  Come  !  " 

"No,"  said  Keith  j  "not  for  all  the  money  you  own.  My 
advice  to  you  is  to  go  to  Squire  Rawson  and  either  offer  to 
take  him  in  with  you  to  the  value  of  his  lands,  or  else  make 
him  a  direct  offer  for  what  those  lands  are  really  worth. 
He  knows  as  much  about  the  value  of  those  lands  as  you  or 
Mr.  Halbrook  or  any  one  else  knows.  Take  my  word  for  it," 

"Rats!"  ejaculated  Wickersham,  briefly.  "I  tell  you 
what,"  he  added  presently :  "if  he  don't  sell  us  that  land 
he'll  never  get  a  cent  out  of  it.  No  one  else  will  ever  take 

202 


THE   HOLD-UP 

it.  We  have  him  cornered.  We've  got  the  land  above 
him,  and  the  water,  too,  and,  what  is  more,  his  title  is  not 
worth  a  damn  ! " 

"Well,  that  is  his  lookout.  I  expect  you  will  find  him 
able  to  take  care  of  himself." 

Wickersham  gave  a  grunt,  then  he  asked  Keith  sud 
denly  : 

"Do  you  know  a  man  named  Plume  over  there  at  Gum- 
bolt?" 

"Yes,"  said  Keith ;  "he  runs  the  paper  there." 

"Yes  ;  that's  he.     What  sort  of  a  man  is  he  I " 

Keith  gave  a  brief  estimate  of  Mr.  Plume  :  "You  will  see 
him  and  can  judge  for  yourself." 

"I  always  do,"  said  Wickersham,  briefly.  "Know  any 
body  can  work  him  ?  The  governor  and  he  fell  out  some 
time  ago,  but  I  want  to  get  hold  of  him." 

Keith  thought  he  knew  one  who  might  influence  Mr. 
Plume  ;  but  he  did  not  mention  the  name  or  sex. 

"Who  is  that  woman  inside?"  demanded  Wickersham. 
"I  mean  the  young  one,  with  the  eyes." 

"They  call  her  Terpsichore.  She  keeps  the  dance- 
hall." 

"Friend  of  yours  t " 

"Yes."    Keith  spoke  shortly. 

The  stage  presently  began  to  descend  Hellstreak  Hill, 
which  Keith  mentioned  as  the  scene  of  the  robbery  which 
old  Tim  Gilsey  had  told  him  of.  As  it  swung  down  the 
long  descent,  with  the  lights  of  the  lamps  flashing  on  the 
big  tree-tops,  and  with  the  roar  of  the  rushing  water  below 
them  coming  up  as  it  boiled  over  the  rocks,  Wickersham 
conceived  a  higher  opinion  of  Keith  than  he  had  had  be 
fore,  and  he  mentally  resolved  that  the  next  time  he  came 
over  that  road  he  would  make  the  trip  in  the  daytime. 
They  had  just  crossed  the  little  creek  which  dashed  over 
the  rocks  toward  the  river,  and  had  begun  to  ascend  another 
hill,  when  Wickersham,  who  had  been  talking  about  his 
drag,  was  pleased  to  have  Keith  offer  him  the  reins.  He 

203 


GOKDON  KEITH 

took  them  with  some  pride,  and  Keith  dived  down  into  the 
boot.     When  he  sat  up  again  he  had  a  pistol  in  his  hand. 

"It  was  just  about  here  that  that i hold-up '  occurred." 

"Suppose  they  should  try  to  hold  you  up  now,  what 
would  you  do  f  "  asked  Wickersham. 

"Oh,  I  don't  think  there  is  any  danger  now,"  said  Keith. 
"I  have  driven  over  here  at  all  hours  and  in  all  weathers. 
We  are  getting  too  civilized  for  that  now,  and  most  of  the 
express  comes  over  in  a  special  wagon.  It's  only  the  mail 
and  small  packages  that  come  on  this  stage." 

"But  if  they  should?  "  demanded  Wickersham. 

"Well,  I  suppose  I'd  whip  up  my  horses  and  cut  for  it," 
said  Keith. 

"I  wouldn't,"  asserted  Wickersham.  "I'd  like  to  see 
any  man  make  me  run  when  I  have  a  gun  in  my  pocket." 

Suddenly,  as  if  in  answer  to  his  boast,  there  was  a  flash 
in  the  road,  and  the  report  of  a  pistol  under  the  very 
noses  of  the  leaders,  which  made  them  swerve  aside  with 
a  rattling  of  the  swingle -bars,  and  twist  the  stage  sharply 
over  to  the  side  of  the  road.  At  the  same  instant  a 
dark  figure  was  seen  in  the  dim  light  which  the  lamp 
threw  on  the  road,  close  beside  one  of  the  horses,  and  a 
voice  was  heard : 

"I've  got  you  now, you  ! " 

It  was  all  so  sudden  that  Wickersham  had  not  time  to 
think.  It  seemed  to  him  like  a  scene  in  a  play  rather 
than  a  reality.  He  instinctively  shortened  the  reins  and 
pulled  up  the  frightened  horses.  Keith  seized  the  reins 
with  one  hand  and  snatched  at  the  whip  with  the  other ; 
but  it  was  too  late.  Wickersham,  hardly  conscious  of  what 
he  was  doing,  was  clutching  the  reins  with  all  his  might, 
trying  to  control  the  leaders,  whilst  pandemonium  broke 
out  inside,  cries  from  the  women  and  oaths  from  the  men. 

There  was  another  volley  of  oaths  and  another  flash,  and 
Wickersham  felt  a  sharp  little  burn  on  the  arm  next  Keith. 

"Hold  on  ! "  he  shouted.  "For  God's  sake,  don't  shoot ! 
Hold  on  !  Stop  the  horses  ! " 

204 


Sprang  over  the  edge  of  the  road  into  the  thick  bushes  below. 


THE   HOLD-UP 

At  the  same  moment  Keith  disappeared  over  the  wheel. 
He  had  fallen  or  sprung  from  his  seat, 

"The coward  ! "  thought  Wickersham.  "He  is  run 
ning." 

The  next  second  there  was  a  report  of  a  pistol  close  be 
side  the  stage,  and  the  man  in  the  road  at  the  horses'  heads 
fired  again.  Another  report,  and  Keith  dashed  forward 
into  the  light  of  the  lantern  and  charged  straight  at  the 
robber,  who  fired  once  more,  and  then,  when  Keith  was 
within  ten  feet  of  him,  turned  and  sprang  over  the  edge 
of  the  road  into  the  thick  bushes  below.  Keith  sprang 
straight  after  him,  and  the  two  went  crashing  through  the 
underbrush,  down  the  steep  side  of  the  hill. 

The  inmates  of  the  stage  poured  out  into  the  road,  all 
talking  together,  and  Wickersham,  with  the  aid  of  Jake 
Dennison,  succeeded  in  quieting  the  horses.  The  noise  of 
the  flight  and  the  pursuit  had  now  grown  more  distant, 
but  once  more  several  shots  were  heard,  deep  down  in  the 
woods,  and  then  even  they  ceased. 

It  had  all  happened  so  quickly  that  the  passengers  had 
seen  nothing.  They  demanded  of  Wickersham  how  many 
robbers  there  were.  They  were  divided  in  their  opinion 
as  to  the  probable  outcome.  The  men  declared  that  Keith 
had  probably  got  the  robber  if  he  had  not  been  killed 
himself  at  the  last  fire. 

Terpsichore  was  in  a  passion  of  rage  because  the  men 
had  not  jumped  out  instantly  to  Keith's  rescue,  and  one 
of  them  had  held  her  in  the  stage  and  prevented  her  from 
poking  her  head  out  to  see  the  fight.  In  the  light  of  the 
lantern  Wickersham  observed  that  she  was  handsome.  He 
watched  her  with  interest.  There  was  something  of  the 
tiger  in  her  lithe  movement.  She  declared  that  she  was 
going  down  into  the  woods  herself  to  find  Keith.  She  was 
sure  he  had  been  killed. 

The  men  protested  against  this,  and  Jake  Dennison  and 
another  man  started  to  the  rescue,  whilst  a  grizzled, 
weather-beaten  fellow  caught  and  held  her. 

205 


GORDON   KEITH 

"Why,  my  darlint,  I  couldn't  let  you  go  down  there. 
Why,  you'd  ruin  your  new  bonnet,"  he  said. 

The  young  woman  snatched  the  bonnet  from  her  head 
and  slung  it  in  his  face. 

"You  coward  !  Do  you  think  I  care  for  a  bonnet  when  the 
best  man  in  Gumbolt  may  be  dying  down  in  them  woods  ?  " 

With  a  cuff  on  the  ear  as  the  man  burst  out  laughing 
and  put  his  hand  on  her  to  soothe  her,  she  turned  and 
darted  over  the  bank  into  the  woods.  Fortunately  for 
the  rest  of  her  apparel,  which  must  have  suffered  as  much 
as  the  dishevelled  bonnet,— which  the  grizzled  miner  had 
picked  up  and  now  held  in  his  hand  as  carefully  as  if  it 
were  one  of  the  birds  which  ornamented  it,— some  one  was 
heard  climbing  up  through  the  bushes  toward  the  road  a 
little  distance  ahead. 

The  men  stepped  forward  and  waited,  each  one  with 
his  hand  in  the  neighborhood  of  his  belt,  whilst  the 
women  instinctively  fell  to  the  rear.  The  next  moment 
Keith  appeared  over  the  edge  of  the  road.  As  he  stepped 
into  the  light  it  was  seen  that  his  face  was  bleeding  and 
that  his  left  arm  hung  limp  at  his  side. 

The  men  called  to  Terpy  to  come  back  :  that  Keith  was 
there.  A  moment  later  she  emerged  from  the  bushes  and 
clambered  up  the  bank. 

"Did  you  get  him?"  was  the  first  question  she  asked. 

"No."  Keith  gave  the  girl  a  swift  glance,  and  turning 
quietly,  he  asked  one  of  the  men  to  help  him  off  with  his 
coat.  In  the  light  of  the  lamp  he  had  a  curious  expression 
on  his  white  face. 

"Terpy  was  that  skeered  about  you,  she  swore  she  was 
goin'  down  there  to  help  you,"  said  the  miner  who  still 
held  the  hat. 

A  box  on  the  ear  from  the  young  woman  stopped  what 
ever  further  observation  he  was  going  to  make. 

"Shut  up.  Don't  you  see  he's  hurt  ?  "  She  pushed  away 
the  man  who  was  helping  Keith  off  with  his  coat,  and  took 
his  place. 

206 


THE   HOLD-UP 

No  one  who  had  seen  her  as  she  relieved  Keith  of  the  coat 
and  with  dexterous  fingers,  which  might  have  been  a 
trained  nurse's,  cut  away  the  bloody  shirt-sleeve,  would 
have  dreamed  that  she  was  the  virago  who,  a  few  moments 
before,  had  been  raging  in  the  road,  swearing  like  a  trooper, 
and  cuffing  men's  ears. 

When  the  sleeve  was  removed  it  was  found  that  Keith's 
arm  was  broken  just  above  the  elbow,  and  the  blood  was 
pouring  from  two  small  wounds.  Terpy  levied  imperiously 
on  the  other  passengers  for  handkerchiefs ;  then,  not  wait 
ing  for  their  contributions,  suddenly  lifting  her  skirt, 
whipped  off  a  white  petticoat,  and  tore  it  into  strips.  She 
soon  had  the  arm  bound  up,  showing  real  skill  in  her 
surgery.  Once  she  whispered  a  word  in  his  ear— a  single 
name.  Keith  remained  silent,  but  she  read  his  answer,  and 
went  on  with  her  work  with  a  grim  look  on  her  face.  Then 
Keith  mounted  his  box  against  the  remonstrances  of  every 
one,  and  the  passengers  having  reentered  the  stage,  Wick- 
ersham  drove  on  into  Gumbolt.  His  manner  was  more 
respectful  to  Keith  than  it  had  ever  been  before. 

Within  a  half-hour  after  their  arrival  the  sheriff  and  his 
party,  with  Dave  Dennison  at  the  head  of  the  posse,  were 
on  their  horses,  headed  for  the  scene  of  the  "hold-up." 
Dave  could  have  had  half  of  Gumbolt  for  posse  had  he  de 
sired  it.  They  attempted  to  get  some  information  from 
Keith  as  to  the  appearance  of  the  robber ;  but  Keith 
failed  to  give  any  description  by  which  one  man  might 
have  been  distinguished  from  the  rest  of  the  male  sex. 

"Could  they  expect  a  man  to  take  particular  notice  of 
how  another  looked  under  such  circumstances?  He 
looked  like  a  pretty  .big  man." 

Wickersham  was  able  to  give  a  more  explicit  descrip 
tion. 

The  pursuers  returned  a  little  after  sunrise  next  morn 
ing  without  having  found  the  robber. 


207 


CHAPTER   XV 
MKS.    YOKKE   MAKES   A  MATCH 

fTVHE  next  day  Keith  was  able  to  sit  up,  though  the 
_1_  Doctor  refused  to  let  him  go  out  of  the  house.  He 
was  alone  in  his  room  when  a  messenger  announced  that  a 
woman  wished  to  see  him.  When  the  visitor  came  up  it 
was  Terpy.  She  was  in  a  state  of  suppressed  excitement. 
Her  face  was  white,  her  eyes  glittered.  Her  voice  as  she 
spoke  was  tremulous  with  emotion. 

" They're  on  to  him,"  she  said  in  a  husky  voice.  "That 
man  that  corned  over  on  the  stage  with  you  give  a  descrip 
tion  of  him,  this  mornin',  't  made  'em  tumble  to  him  after 
we  had  throwed  'em  off  the  track.  If  I  ever  git  a  show  at 
him  !  They  knows  'twas  Bill.  That  little  devil  Dennison 
is  out  ag'in." 

"Oh,  they  won't  catch  him,"  said  Keith  ;  but  as  he  spoke 
his  face  changed.  "What  if  he  should  get  drunk  and  come 
into  town  ?  "  he  asked  himself. 

"If  they  git  him,  they'll  hang  him,"  pursued  the  girl, 
without  heeding  him.  "They're  all  up.  You  are  so 
popular." 

"Me?"  exclaimed  Keith,  laughing. 

"It's  so,"  said  the  girl,  gravely.  "That  Dave  Dennison 
would  kill  anybody  for  you,  and  they're  ag'in'  Bill,  all 
of  'em." 

"Can't  you  get  word  to  him?  "  began  Keith,  and  paused. 
He  looked  at  her  keenly.  "You  must  keep  him  out  of  the 
way." 

208 


MRS.  YORKE   MAKES   A   MATCH 

"He's  wounded.  You  got  him  in  the  shoulder.  He's 
got  to  see  a  doctor.  The  ball's  still  in  there." 

"I  knew  it,"  said  Keith,  quietly. 

The  girl  gazed  at  him  a  moment,  and  then  looked  away. 

"That  was  the  reason  I  have  been  a-pesterin'  you,  goin' 
back'ards  an<i  for'ards.  I  hope  you  will  excuse  me  of  it," 
she  said  irrelevantly. 

Keith  sat  quite  still  for  a  moment,  as  it  all  came  over 
him.  It  was,  then,  him  that  the  man  was  after,  not  rob 
bery,  and  this  girl,  unable  to  restrain  her  discarded  suitor 
without  pointing  suspicion  to  him,  had  imperilled  her  life 
for  Keith,  when  he  was  conceited  enough  to  more  than  half 
accept  the  hints  of  strangers  that  she  cared  for  him. 

"We  must  get  him  away,"  he  said,  rising  painfully. 
"Where  is  he?" 

"He's  hid  in  a  house  down  the  road.  I  have  flung  'em 
off  the  track  by  abusin'  of  him.  They  know  I  am  against 
him,  and  they  think  I  am  after  you,"  she  said,  looking  at 
him  with  frank  eyes ;  "and  I  have  been  lettin'  'em  think 
it,"  she  added  quietly. 

Keith  almost  gasped.  Truly  this  girl  was  past  his  com 
prehension. 

"We  must  get  him  away,"  he  said. 

"How  can  we  do  it?"  she  asked.  "They  suspicion  he's 
here,  and  the  pickets  are  out.  If  he  warn't  hit  in  the  shoul 
der  so  bad,  he  could  fight  his  way  out.  He  ain't  afraid  of 
none  of  'em,"  she  added,  with  a  flash  of  the  old  pride.  "I 
could  go  with  him  and  help  him ;  I  have  done  it  before  j 
but  I  would  have  to  break  up  here.  He's  got  to  see  a 
doctor." 

Keith  sat  in  reflection  for  a  moment. 

"Tim  Gilsey  is  going  to  drive  the  stage  over  to  Eden 
to-night.  Go  down  and  see  if  the  places  are  all  taken." 

"I  have  got  a  place  on  it,"  she  said,  "on  the  boot." 

As  Keith  looked  at  her,  she  added  in  explanation : 

"I  take  it  regular,  so  as  to  have  it  when  I  want  it." 

Under  Keith's  glance  she  turned  away  her  eyes. 

209 


GORDON   KEITH 

"I  am  going  to  Eden  to-night/'  said  Keith. 

She  looked  puzzled. 

"If  you  could  get  old  Tim  to  stop  at  that  house  for  five 
minutes  till  I  give  Bluffy  a  letter  to  Dr.  Balsam  over  at  the 
Springs,  I  think  we  might  arrange  it.  My  clothes  will  fit 
him.  You  will  have  to  see  Uncle  Tim." 

Her  countenance  lit  up. 

"You  mean  you  would  stop  there  and  let  him  take  your 
place  ?  " 

"Yes." 

The  light  of  craft  that  must  have  been  in  Delilah's  eyes 
when  Samson  lay  at  her  feet  was  in  her  face.  She 
sprang  up. 

"I  will  never  forgit  you,  and  Bill  won't  neither.  He 
knows  now  what  a  hound  he  has  been.  When  you  let  him 
off  last  night  after  he  had  slipped  on  the  rock,  he  says  that 
was  enough  for  him.  Before  he  will  ever  pull  a  pistol  on 
you  ag'in,  he  says  he  will  blow  his  own  brains  out ;  and  he 
will,  or  I  will  for  him."  She  looked  capable  of  it  as  she 
stood  with  glowing  eyes  and  after  a  moment  held  out  her 
hand.  She  appeared  about  to  speak,  but  reflected  and 
turned  away. 

When  the  girl  left  Keith's  room  a  few  moments  later, 
she  carried  a  large  bundle  under  her  arm,  and  that  night 
the  stage  stopped  in  the  darkness  at  a  little  shanty  at  the 
far  end  of  the  fast-growing  street,  and  Keith  descended 
painfully  and  went  into  the  house.  Whilst  the  stage 
waited,  old  Tim  attempted  to  do  something  to  the  lamp 
on  that  side,  and  in  turning  it  down  he  put  it  out.  Just 
then  Keith,  with  his  arm  in  a  sling  and  wrapped  in  a 
heavy  coat,  came  out,  and  was  helped  by  old  Tim  up  to  the 
seat  beside  him.  The  stage  arrived  somewhat  ahead  of 
time  at  the  point  which  the  railroad  had  now  reached, 
and  old  Tim,  without  waiting  for  daylight,  took  the  trouble 
to  hire  a  buggy  and  send  the  wounded  man  on,  declaring 
that  it  was  important  that  he  should  get  to  a  hospital  as 
soon  as  possible. 

210 


MRS.   YOKKE   MAKES   A   MATCH 

Amusements  were  scarce  in  Gumbolt,  and  Ferdy  Wicker- 
sham  had  been  there  only  a  day  or  two  when,  under  Mr. 
Plume's  guidance,  he  sought  the  entertainment  of  Terp 
sichore's  Hall.  He  had  been  greatly  struck  by  Terpy  that 
night  on  the  road,  when  she  had  faced  down  the  men  and 
had  afterwards  bound  up  Keith's  arm.  He  had  heard  from 
Plume  rumors  of  her  frequent  trips  over  the  road  and  jests 
of  her  fancy  for  Keith.  He  would  test  it.  It  would  break 
the  monotony  and  give  zest  to  the  pursuit  to  make  an 
inroad  on  Keith's  preserve.  When  he  saw  her  on  the  little 
stage  he  was  astonished  at  her  dancing.  Why,  the  girl  was 
an  artist !  As  good  a  figure,  as  active  a  tripper,  as  high  a 
kicker,  as  dainty  a  pair  of  ankles  as  he  had  seen  in  a  long 
time,  not  to  mention  a  keen  pair  of  eyes  with  the  devil  peep 
ing  from  them.  To  his  surprise,  he  found  Terpy  stony  to 
his  advances.  Her  eyes  glittered  with  dislike  for  him. 

He  became  one  of  the  highest  players  that  had  ever  en 
tered  the  gilded  apartment  on  Terpsichore's  second  floor ; 
he  ordered  more  champagne  than  any  man  in  Gumbolt ; 
but  for  all  this  he  failed  to  ingratiate  himself  with  its  pre 
siding  genius.  Terpsichore  still  looked  at  him  with  level 
eyes  in  which  was  a  cold  gleam,  and  when  she  showed  her 
white  teeth  it  was  generally  to  emphasize  some  gibe  at 
him.  One  evening,  after  a  little  passage  at  arms,  Wicker- 
sham  chucked  her  under  the  chin  and  called  her  "  Dar 
ling."  Terpsichore  wheeled  on  him. 

"Keep  your  dirty  hands  to  yourself,"  she  said,  with  a 
flash  in  her  eye,  and  gave  him  such  a  box  on  the  ear  as 
made  his  head  ring.  The  men  around  broke  into  a  guffaw. 

Wickersham  was  more  than  angry  ;  he  was  enraged.  He 
had  heard  a  score  of  men  call  her  by  endearing  names.  He 
had  also  seen  some  of  them  get  the  same  return  that  he 
received ;  but  none  so  vicious.  He  sprang  to  his  feet, 
his  face  flushed.  The  next  second  his  senses  returned,  and 
he  saw  that  he  must  make  the  best  of  it. 

"You  vixen  ! "  he  said,  with  a  laugh,  and  caught  the  girl 
by  the  wrist.  "I  will  make  you  pay  for  that."  As  he 

211 


GOKDON  KEITH 

tried  to  draw  her  to  him,  she  whipped  from  her  dress  a 
small  stiletto  which  she  wore  as  an  ornament,  and  drew 
it  back. 

"Let  go,  or  I'll  drive  it  into  you,"  she  said,  with  fire 
darting  from  her  eyes ;  and  Wickersham  let  go  amid  the 
laughter  and  jeers  of  those  about  them,  who  were  egging 
the  girl  on  and  calling  to  her  to  "give  it  to  him." 

Wickersham  after  this  tried  to  make  his  peace,  but 
without  avail.  Though  he  did  not  know  it,  Terpsichore 
had  in  her  heart  a  feeling  of  hate  which  was  relentless.  It 
was  his  description  that  had  set  the  sheriff's  posse  on  the 
track  of  her  dissipated  lover,  and  though  she  had  "washed 
her  hands  of  Bill  Bluffy,"  as  she  said,  she  could  not  forgive 
the  man  who  had  injured  him. 

Then  Wickersham,  having  committed  one  error,  com 
mitted  another.  He  tried  to  get  revenge,  and  the  man 
who  sets  out  to  get  revenge  on  a  woman  starts  on  a  sad 
journey.  At  least,  it  was  so  with  Wickersham. 

He  attributed  the  snubbing  he  had  received  to  the 
girl's  liking  for  Keith,  and  he  began  to  meditate  how  he 
should  get  even  with  them.  The  chance  presented  itself, 
as  he  thought,  when  one  night  he  attended  a  ball  at  the 
Windsor.  It  was  a  gay  occasion,  for  the  Wickershams  had 
opened  their  first  mine,  and  Gumbolt's  future  was  assured. 
The  whole  of  Gumbolt  was  there— at  least,  all  of  those 
who  did  not  side  with  Mr.  Drummond,  the  Methodist 
preacher.  Terpsichore  was  there,  and  Keith,  who  danced 
with  her.  She  was  the  handsomest-dressed  woman  in 
the  throng,  and,  to  Wickersham's  surprise,  she  was  dressed 
with  some  taste,  and  her  manners  were  quiet  and  sub 
dued. 

Toward  morning  the  scene  became  hilarious,  and  a  call 
was  made  for  Terpsichore  to  give  a  Spanish  dance.  The 
girl  held  back,  but  her  admirers  were  in  no  mood  for 
refusal,  and  the  call  became  insistent.  Keith  had  gone  to 
his  room,  but  Wickersham  was  still  there,  and  his  cham 
pagne  had  flowed  freely.  At  length  the  girl  yielded,  and, 

212 


MKS.   YORKE   MAKES   A  MATCH 

after  a  few  words  with  the  host  of  the  Windsor,  she 
stepped  forward  and  began  to  dance. 

She  danced  in  such  a  way  that  the  applause  made  the 
brass  chandeliers  ring.  Even  Wickersham,  though  he  hated 
her,  could  not  but  admire  her. 

Keith,  who  had  found  it  useless  to  try  to  sleep  even  in  a 
remote  corner  of  the  hotel,  returned  just  then,  and  whether 
it  was  that  Terpsichore  caught  sight  of  him  as  she  glanced 
his  way,  or  that  she  caught  sight  of  Wickersham's  hostile 
face,  she  faltered  and  stopped  suddenly. 

Wickersham  thought  she  had  broken  down,  and,  under 
the  influence  of  the  champagne,  turned  with  a  jeer  to 
Plume. 

"She  can't  dance,  Plume,"  he  called  across  to  the  editor, 
who  was  at  some  little  distance  in  the  crowd. 

Those  nearest  to  the  dancer  urged  her  to  continue,  but  she 
had  heard  Wickersham's  jeer,  and  she  suddenly  faced  him 
and,  pointing  her  long,  bare  arm  toward  him,  said :  "Put 
that  man  out,  or  I  won't  go  on." 

Wickersham  gave  a  laugh.  "Go  on?  You  can't  go  on," 
he  said,  trying  to  steady  himself  on  his  feet.  "You  can't 
dance  any  more  than  a  cow." 

He  had  never  heard  before  the  hum  of  an  angry  crowd. 

"Throw  him  out!  Fling  him  out  of  the  window!" 
were  the  words  he  caught. 

In  a  second  a  score  of  men  were  about  him,  and  more 
than  a  score  were  rushing  in  his  direction  with  a  sound 
that  brought  him  quickly  to  his  senses. 

Fortunately  two  men  with  cool  heads  were  near  by. 
With  a  spring  Keith  and  a  short,  stout  young  fellow  with 
gray  eyes  were  making  their  way  to  his  side,  dragging  men 
back,  throwing  them  aside,  expostulating,  ordering,  and, 
before  anything  else  had  happened  than  the  tearing  of  his 
coat  half  off  of  his  back,  Wickersham  found  himself  with 
Keith  and  Dave  Dennison  standing  in  front  of  him,  defend 
ing  him  against  the  angry  revellers. 

The  determined  air  of  the  two  officers  held  the  assailants 

213 


GOKDON   KEITH 

in  check  long  enough  for  them  to  get  their  attention,  and, 
after  a  moment,  order  was  restored  on  condition  that 
Wickersham  should  "apologize  to  the  lady  and  leave 
town." 

This  Wickersham,  well  sobered  by  the  handling  he  had 
received,  was  willing  to  do,  and  he  was  made  to  walk  up 
and  offer  a  humble  apology  to  Terpsichore,  who  accepted 
it  with  but  indifferent  grace. 

That  winter  the  railroad  reached  Gumbolt,  and  Gumbolt, 
or  New  Leeds,  as  it  was  now  called,  sprang  at  once,  so  to 
speak,  from  a  chrysalis  to  a  full-fledged  butterfly  with 
wings  unfolding  in  the  sun  of  prosperity. 

Lands  that  a  year  or  two  before  might  have  been  had  for 
a  song,  and  mineral  rights  that  might  have  been  had  for  less 
than  a  song,  were  now  held  at  fabulous  prices. 

Keith  was  sitting  at  his  table,  one  day,  writing,  when 
there  was  a  heavy  step  outside,  and  Squire  Kawson  walked 
in  on  him. 

When  all  matters  of  mutual  interest  had  been  talked 
over,  the  squire  broached  the  real  object  of  his  visit ;  at 
least,  he  began  to  approach  it.  He  took  out  his  pipe  and 
filled  it. 

"Well,  it's  come,"  he  said. 

"What  has  come?" 

"The  railroad.  That  young  man  Ehodes  said  'twas 
comin',  and  so  it's  done.  He  was  something  of  a  prophet." 
The  old  fellow  chuckled  softly  and  lit  his  pipe.  "That 
there  friend  of  yours,  Mr.  Wickersham,  is  been  down  here 
ag'in.  Kind  o'  hangs  around.  What's  he  up  to  ?  " 

Keith  laughed. 

"Well,  it's  pretty  hard  to  tell  what  Wickersham  is  up 
to,— at  least,  by  what  he  says,— especially  when  you  don't 
tell  me  what  he  is  doing." 

The  old  man  looked  pleased.  Keith  had  let  him  believe 
that  he  did  not  know  what  he  was  talking  of,  and  had  ex 
pressed  an  opinion  in  which  he  agreed. 

214 


MRS.  YOKKE   MAKES    A   MATCH 

"That's  what  I  think.    Well,  it's  about  my  land  up  here." 

Keith  looked  relieved. 

"Has  he  made  you  another  offer  for  it?" 

"No ;  he  ain't  done  that,  and  he  won't  do  it.  That's 
what  I  tells  him.  If  he  wants  it,  let  him  make  me  a  good 
offer ;  but  he  won't  do  that.  He  kind  o'  circles  around 
like  a  pigeon  before  he  lights,  and  talks  about  what  I  paid 
for  it,  and  a  hundred  per  cent,  advance,  and  all  that.  I 
give  a  sight  for  that  land  he  don't  know  nothin'  about— 
years  of  hard  work  on  the  mountain-side,  sweatin'  o'  days, 
and  layin'  out  in  the  cold  at  nights,  lookin'  up  at  the  stars 
and  wonderin'  how  I  was  to  git  along— studyin'  of  folks  jest 
as  I  studied  cattle.  That's  what  I  paid  for  that  land.  He 
wants  me  to  set  him  a  price,  and  I  won't  do  that— he  might 
give  it."  He  looked  shrewdly  at  Keith.  "Ain't  I  right?  " 

"I  think  so." 

"He  wants  me  to  let  him  have  control  of  it ;  but  I  ain't 
a-goin'  to  do  that  neither." 

"That's  certainly  right,"  said  Keith,  heartily. 

"I  tell  him  I'm  a-goin'  to  hold  to  that  for  Phrony. 
Phrony  says  she  wants  me  to  sell  it  to  him,  too.  But 
women-folks  don't  know  about  business." 

Keith  wondered  what  effect  this  piece  of  information 
had  on  Wickersham,  and  also  what  further  design  the  old 
squire  had  in  mind. 

"I  think  it's  about  time  to  do  something  with  that  land. 
If  all  he  says  is  true,— not  about  my  land  (he  makes  out  as 
my  land  is  situate  too  far  away  ever  to  be  much  account— 
fact  is,  he  don't  allow  I've  got  any  land  ;  he  says  it's  all  his 
anyway),  but  about  other  lands— everybody  else's  land  but 
mine,— it  might  be  a  good  time  to  look  around.  I  know 
as  my  land  is  the  best  land  up  here.  I  holds  the  key  to 
the  situation.  That's  what  we  used  to  call  it  durin'  the 
war. 

"Well,  there  ain't  but  three  ways  to  git  to  them  coal- 
lands  back  up  yonder  in  the  Gap  :  one's  by  way  of  heaven, 
and  I  'lows  there  ain't  many  land-speculators  goin'  by  that 

215 


GORDON   KEITH 

way ;  the  other  is  through  hell,  a  way  they'll  know  more 
about  hereafter  ;  and  the  third's  through  my  land." 

Keith  laughed  and  waited. 

"He  seems  to  be  hangin'  around  Phrony  pretty  consider 
able?" 

Keith  caught  the  gleam  in  the  old  fellow's  deep  eye,  and 
looked  away. 

"I  can't  make  it  out.     Phrony  she  likes  him." 

Keith  fastened  his  gaze  on  something  out  of  the  window. 

"I  don't  know  him,"  pursued  the  squire.  "But  I  don't 
think— he'd  suit  Phrony.  His  ways  ain't  like  ours,  and—." 
He  lapsed  into  reflection,  and  Keith,  with  his  eyes  still  fas 
tened  on  something  outside  the  window,  sighed  to  think  of 
the  old  man's  innocence.  That  he  should  imagine  that 
Wickersham  had  any  serious  idea  of  marrying  the  grand 
daughter  of  a  backwoods  magistrate  !  The  old  squire  broke 
the  silence. 

"You  don't  suppose  he  could  be  hankerin'  after  Phrony 
for  her  property,  do  you  ?  " 

"No,  I  do  not,"  said  Keith,  positively,  relieved  that  at 
last  a  question  was  put  which  he  could  answer  directly. 

"Because  she  ain't  got  any,"  asserted  the  squire.  "She's 
got  prospects  ;  but  I'm  goin'  to  remove  them.  It  don't  do 
for  a  young  woman  to  have  too  much  prospects.  I'm 
goin'  to  sell  that  land  and  git  it  down  in  cash,  where  I  can 
do  what  I  want  with  it.  And  I  want  you  to  take  charge 
of  it  for  me." 

This,  then,  was  the  real  object  of  his  visit.  He  wanted 
Keith  to  take  charge  of  his  properties.  It  was  a  tempting 
offer  to  make  Keith.  The  old  man  had  been  a  shrewd 
negotiator. 

There  is  no  success  so  sweet  as  that  which  comes  to  a 
young  man. 

That  night  Keith  spent  out  under  the  stars.  Success  had 
come.  And  its  other  name  was  Alice  Yorke. 

The  way  before  Keith  still  stretched  steep  enough,  but 
the  light  was  on  it,  the  sunshine  caught  peak  after  peak 

216 


MKS.  YOKKE   MAKES   A   MATCH 

high  up  among  the  clouds  themselves,  and  crowning  the 
highest  point,  bathed  in  perpetual  sunlight,  was  the  image 
of  Alice  Yorke. 

Alice  Yorke  had  been  abroad  now  for  some  time  ;  but  he 
had  followed  her.  Often  when  his  work  was  done  he  had 
locked  his  door  and  shut  himself  in  from  the  turmoil  of 
the  bustling,  noisy  throng  outside  to  dream  of  her— to 
read  and  study  that  he  might  become  worthy  of  her. 

He  had  just  seen  by  the  papers  that  Alice  Yorke  had 
returned. 

She  had  escaped  the  dangers  of  a  foreign  service  ;  but,  by 
the  account,  she  was  the  belle  of  the  season  at  the  watering- 
place  which  she  was  honoring  with  her  presence.  As  he 
read  the  account,  a  little  jealousy  crept  into  the  satisfaction 
which  he  had  felt  as  he  began.  Mr.  Lancaster  was  spoken 
of  too  pointedly  j  and  there  was  mention  of  too  many  yacht- 
parties  and  entertainments  in  which  their  names  appeared 
together. 

In  fact,  the  forces  exerted  against  Alice  Yorke  had 
begun  to  tell.  Her  mother,  overawed  by  her  husband's 
determination,  had  reluctantly  abandoned  her  dreams  of  a 
foreign  title  with  its  attendant  honors  to  herself,  and,  of 
late,  had  turned  all  her  energies  to  furthering  the  suit  of 
Mr.  Lancaster.  It  would  be  a  great  establishment  that  he 
would  give  Alice,  and  no  name  in  the  country  stood  higher. 
He  was  the  soul  of  honor,  personal  and  commercial ;  and 
in  an  age  when  many  were  endeavoring  to  amass  great  for 
tunes  and  make  a  dazzling  display,  he  was  content  to  live 
modestly,  and  was  known  for  his  broad-minded  philan 
thropy.  What  did  it  matter  that  he  was  considerably 
older  than  Alice  ?  reflected  Mrs.  Yorke.  Mrs.  Creamer  and 
half  the  mothers  she  knew  would  give  their  eyes  to  secure 
him  for  their  daughters  ;  and  certainly  he  had  shown  that 
he  knew  how  to  enter  into  Alice's  feelings. 

Even  Mr.  Yorke  had  begun  to  favor  Mr.  Lancaster  after 
Mrs.  Yorke  had  skilfully  pointed  out  that  Alice's  next  most 
attentive  admirer  was  Ferdy  Wickersham. 

217 


GORDON   KEITH 

"Why,  I  thought  he  was  still  trying  to  get  that  Caldwell 
girl,'7  said  he. 

"  You  know  he  cannot  get  her ;  she  is  married/'  replied 
Mrs.  Yorke. 

"I  guess  that  would  make  precious  little  difference  to 
that  young  man,  if  she  would  say  the  word.  I  wish  he 
would  keep  away  from  here.7' 

"Oh,  Ferdy  is  no  worse  than  some  others ;  you  were  al 
ways  unjust  to  him.  Most  young  men  sow  their  wild  oats." 

No  man  likes  to  be  charged  with  injustice  by  his  wife, 
and  Mr.  Yorke's  tone  showed  that  he  was  no  exception  to 
this  rule. 

"He  is  worse  than  most  others  I  know,  and  the  crop  of 
oats  he  is  sowing,  if  he  does  not  look  out,  he  will  reap 
somewhere  else  besides  in  New  York.  Alice  shall  marry 
whom  she  pleases,  provided  it  is  not  that  young  man  j 
but  she  shall  not  marry  him  if  she  wants  to." 

"She  does  not  want  to  marry  him,"  said  Mrs.  Yorke  ;  "if 
she  had  she  could  have  done  it  long  ago." 

"Not  while  I  lived,"  said  Mr.  Yorke,  firmly.  But  from 
this  time  Mr.  Yorke  began  to  acquiesce  in  his  wife's  plans 
touching  Mr.  Lancaster. 

Finally  Alice  herself  began  to  yield.  The  influences 
were  very  strong,  and  were  skilfully  exerted.  The  only 
man  who  had  ever  made  any  lasting  impression  on  her  heart 
was,  she  felt,  out  of  the  question.  The  young  school-teacher, 
with  his  pride  and  his  scorn  of  modern  ways,  had  influ 
enced  her  life  more  than  any  one  else  she  had  ever  known, 
and  though  under  her  mother's  management  the  feeling  had 
gradually  subsided,  and  had  been  merged  into  what  was 
merely  a  cherished  recollection,  Memory,  stirred  at  times 
by  some  picture  or  story  of  heroism  and  devotion,  re 
minded  her  that  she  too  might,  under  other  conditions, 
have  had  a  real  romance.  Still,  after  two  or  three  years,  her 
life  appeared  to  have  been  made  for  her  by  Fate,  and  she 
yielded,  not  recognizing  that  Fate  was  only  a  very  ambi 
tious  and  somewhat  short-sighted  mamma  aided  by  the 

218 


MRS.  YORKE   MAKES    A   MATCH 

conditions  of  an  artificial  state  of  life  known  as  fashionable 
society. 

Keith  wrote  Alice  Yorke  a  letter  congratulating  her 
upon  her  safe  return ;  but  a  feeling,  part  shyness,  part 
pride,  seized  him.  He  had  received  no  acknowledgment 
of  his  last  letter.  Why  should  he  write  again  ?  He  mailed 
the  letter  in  the  waste-basket.  Now,  however,  that  success 
had  come  to  him,  he  wrote  her  a  brief  note  congratulating 
her  upon  her  return,  a  stiff  little  plea  for  remembrance. 
He  spoke  of  his  good  fortune :  he  was  the  agent  for  the 
most  valuable  lands  in  that  region,  and  the  future  was 
beginning  to  look  very  bright.  Business,  he  said,  might 
take  him  North  before  long,  and  the  humming-birds  would 
show  him  the  way  to  the  fairest  roses.  The  hope  of  seeing 
her  shone  in  every  line.  It  reached  Alice  Yorke  in  the 
midst  of  preparation  for  her  marriage. 

Alice  Yorke  sat  for  some  time  in  meditation  over  this 
letter.  It  brought  back  vividly  the  time  which  she  had 
never  wholly  forgotten.  Often,  in  the  midst  of  scenes  so 
gay  and  rich  as  to  amaze  her,  she  had  recalled  the  spring 
time  in  the  budding  woods,  with  an  ardent  boy  beside  her, 
worshipping  her  with  adoring  eyes.  She  had  lived  close  to 
Nature  then,  and  Content  once  or  twice  peeped  forth  at  her 
from  its  covert  with  calm  and  gentle  eyes.  She  had  known 
pleasure  since  then,  joy,  delight,  but  never  content.  How 
ever,  it  was  too  late  now.  Mr.  Lancaster  and  her  mother 
had  won  the  day  ;  she  had  at  last  accepted  him  and  an  es 
tablishment.  She  had  accepted  her  fate  or  had  made  it. 

She  showed  the  letter  to  her  mother.  Mrs.  Yorke's  face 
took  on  an  inscrutable  expression. 

"You  are  not  going  to  answer  it,  of  course?"  she  said. 

"Of  course,  I  am ;  I  am  going  to  write  him  the  nicest 
letter  that  I  know  how  to  write.  He  is  one  of  the  best 
friends  I  ever  had." 

"What  will  Mr.  Lancaster  say?" 

"Mr.  Lancaster  quite  understands.  He  is  going  to  be 
reasonable  ;  that  is  the  condition." 

219 


GOKDON   KEITH 

This  appeared  to  be  satisfactory  to  Mrs.  Yorke,  or,  at 
least,  she  said  no  more. 

Alice's  letter  to  Keith  was  friendly  and  even  kind.  She 
had  never  forgotten  him,  she  said.  Some  day  she  hoped 
to  meet  him  again.  Keith  read  this  with  a  pleasant  light 
in  his  eyes.  He  turned  the  page,  and  his  face  suddenly 
whitened.  She  had  a  piece  of  news  to  tell  him  which 
might  surprise  him.  She  was  engaged  to  be  married  to 
an  old  friend  of  her  family's,  Mr.  Lancaster.  He  had  met 
Mr.  Lancaster,  she  remembered,  and  was  sure  he  would 
like  him,  as  Mr.  Lancaster  had  liked  him  so  much. 

Keith  sat  long  over  this  letter,  his  face  hard  set  and  very 
white.  She  was  lost  to  him.  He  had  not  known  till  then 
how  largely  he  had  built  his  life  upon  the  memory  of  Alice 
Yorke.  Deep  down  under  everything  that  he  had  striven 
for  had  lain  the  foundation  of  his  hope  to  win  her.  It 
went  down  with  a  crash.  He  went  to  his  room,  and  unlock 
ing  his  desk,  took  from  his  drawer  a  small  package  of  letters 
and  other  little  mementos  of  the  past  that  had  been  so 
sweet.  These  he  put  in  the  fire  and,  with  a  grim  face, 
watched  them  blaze  and  burn  to  ashes.  She  was  dead  to 
him.  He  reserved  nothing. 

The  newspapers  described  the  Yorke-Lancaster  wedding 
as  one  of  the  most  brilliant  affairs  of  the  season.  They 
dwelt  particularly  on  the  fortunes  of  both  parties,  the  value 
of  the  presents,  and  the  splendor  of  the  dresses  worn  on 
the  occasion.  One  journal  mentioned  that  Mr.  Lancaster 
was  considerably  older  than  the  bride,  and  was  regarded  as 
one  of  the  best,  because  one  of  the  safest,  matches  to  be 
found  in  society. 

Keith  recalled  Mr.  Lancaster :  dignified,  cultivated,  and 
coldly  gracious.  Then  he  recalled  his  gray  hair,  and  found 
some  satisfaction  in  it.  He  recalled,  too,  Mrs.  Yorke's 
friendliness  for  him.  This,  then,  was  what  it  meant.  He 
wondered  to  himself  how  he  could  have  been  so  blind  to  it. 

When  he  came  to  think  of  it,  Mr.  Lancaster  came  nearer 
possessing  what  others  strove  for  than  any  one  else  he  knew. 

220 


MRS.  YORKE   MAKES  A   MATCH 

Yet,  Youth  looks  on  Youth  as  peculiarly  its  own,  and  Keith 
found  it  hard  to  look  on  Alice  Yorke's  marriage  as  any 
thing  but  a  sale. 

"They  talk  about  the  sin  of  selling  negroes,"  he  said ; 
"that  is  as  very  a  sale  as  ever  took  place  at  a  slave-auc 
tion." 

For  a  time  he  plunged  into  the  gayest  life  that  Gumbolt 
offered.  He  even  began  to  visit  Terpsichore.  But  this  was 
not  for  long.  Mr.  Plume's  congratulations  were  too  dis 
tasteful  to  him  for  him  to  stomach  them  ;  and  Terpy  began 
to  show  her  partiality  too  plainly  for  him  to  take  advan 
tage  of  it.  Besides,  after  all,  though  Alice  Yorke  had 
failed  him,  it  was  treason  to  the  ideal  he  had  so  long  car 
ried  in  his  heart.  This  still  remained  to  him. 

He  went  back  to  his  work,  resolved  to  tear  from  his  heart 
all  memory  of  Alice  Yorke.  She  was  married  and  forever 
beyond  his  dreams.  If  he  had  worked  before  with  enthu 
siasm,  he  now  worked  with  fury.  Mr.  Lancaster,  as  wealthy 
as  he  was,  as  completely  equipped  with  all  that  success  could 
give,  lacked  one  thing  that  Keith  possessed :  he  lacked  the 
promise  of  the  Future.  Keith  would  show  these  Yorkes 
who  he  was. 


221 


CHAPTEE  XVI 

KEITH  VISITS   NEW  YORK,   AND   MKS. 
LANCASTER   SEES  A  GHOST 

FOR  the  next  year  or  two  the  tide  set  in  very  strong 
toward  the  mountains,  and  New  Leeds  advanced  with 
giant  strides.  What  had  been  a  straggling  village  a  year 
or  two  before  was  now  a  town,  and  was  beginning  to  put 
on  the  airs  of  a  city.  Brick  buildings  quite  as  pretentious 
as  the  town  were  springing  up  where  a  year  before  there 
were  unsightly  frame  boxes ;  the  roads  where  hogs  had 
wallowed  in  mire  not  wholly  of  their  own  kneading  were 
becoming  well-paved  streets.  Out  on  the  heights,  where 
had  been  a  forest,  were  sprinkled  sightly  dwellings  in 
pretty  yards.  The  smoke  of  panting  engines  rose  where 
but  a  few  years  back  old  Tim  Gilsey  drew  rein  over  his 
steaming  horses.  Pretty  girls  and  well-dressed  women 
began  to  parade  the  sidewalks  where  formerly  Terpsich 
ore's  skirts  were  the  only  feminine  attire  seen.  And  "Gor 
don  Keith,  civil  and  mining  engineer,"  with  his  straight 
figure  and  tanned,  manly  face,  was  not  ignored  by  them. 
But  locked  in  his  heart  was  the  memory  of  the  girl  he  had 
found  in  the  Spring  woods.  She  was  forever  beyond  him  ; 
but  he  still  clung  to  the  picture  he  had  enshrined  there. 
When  he  saw  Dr.  Balsam,  no  reference  was  made  to  the 
verification  of  the  latter's  prophecy ;  but  the  young  man 
knew  from  the  kind  tone  in  the  older  man's  voice  that  he 
had  heard  of  it.  Meantime  Keith  had  not  been  idle.  Sur 
veys  and  plats  had  been  made,  and  everything  done  to  facil 
itate  placing  the  Rawson  properties  on  the  market. 

222 


KEITH   VISITS   NEW  YORK 

When  old  man  Rawson  came  to  New  Leeds  now,  he 
made  Keith's  little  office  his  headquarters,  and  much 
quaint  philosophy  Keith  learned  from  him. 

"I  reckon  it's  about  time  to  try  our  cattle  in  the  New 
York  market,"  he  said  at  length  to  Keith.  It  was  a  joke 
he  never  gave  up.  "You  go  up  there  and  look  around, 
and  if  you  have  any  trouble  send  for  me." 

So,  taking  his  surveys  and  reports  and  a  few  letters  of 
introduction  Keith  went  to  New  York. 

Only  one  thought  marred  Keith's  joy  :  the  dearest  aim  he 
had  so  long  had  in  view  had  disappeared.  The  triumph  of 
standing  before  Alice  Yorke  and  offering  her  the  reward 
of  his  endeavor  was  gone.  All  he  could  do  was  to  show 
her  what  she  had  lost.  This  he  would  do ;  he  would  win 
life's  highest  honors.  He  grew  grim  with  resolve. 

Something  of  this  triumphant  feeling  showed  in  his  mien 
and  in  his  face  as  he  plunged  into  the  crowded  life  of  the 
city.  From  the  time  he  passed  into  the  throng  that 
streamed  up  the  long  platforms  of  the  station  and  poured 
into  the  wide  ferry-boats,  like  grain  pouring  through  a 
mill,  he  felt  the  thrill  of  the  life.  This  was  what  he  had 
striven  for.  He  would  take  his  place  here  and  show  what 
was  in  him. 

He  had  forgotten  how  gay  the  city  life  was.  Every  place 
of  public  resort  pleased  him  :  theatres,  hotels,  beer-gardens  ; 
but  best  of  all  the  streets.  He  took  them  all  in  with  abso 
lute  freedom  and  delight. 

Business  was  the  watchword,  the  trade-mark.  It  buzzed 
everywhere,  from  the  Battery  to  the  Park.  It  thronged 
the  streets,  pulsating  through  the  outlets  and  inlets  at 
ferries  and  rail  way -stations  and  crossings,  and  through  the 
great  buildings  that  were  already  beginning  to  tower  in 
the  business  sections.  It  hummed  in  the  chief  centres. 
And  through  it  all  and  beyond  it  all  shone  opulence,  opu 
lence  gilded  and  gleaming  and  dazzling  in  its  glitter : 
in  the  big  hotels ;  in  the  rich  shops ;  in  the  gaudy 
theatres ;  along  the  fine  avenues :  a  display  of  wealth  to 

223 


GOKDON   KEITH 

make  the  eyes  ache ;  an  exhibition  of  riches  never  seen 
before.  It  did  Keith  good  at  first  just  to  stand  in  the  streets 
and  watch  the  pageant  as  it  passed  like  a  gilded  panorama. 
Of  the  inner  New  York  he  did  not  yet  know :  the  New 
York  of  luxurious  homes  ;  of  culture  and  of  art ;  of  refine 
ment  and  elegance.  The  New  York  that  has  grown  up 
since,  with  its  vast  wealth,  its  brazen  glitter,  its  tides  that 
roll  up  riches  as  the  sea  rolls  up  the  sand,  was  not  yet.  It 
was  still  in  its  infancy,  a  chrysalis  as  yet  sleeping  within 
its  golden  cocoon. 

Keith  had  no  idea  there  were  so  many  handsome  and 
stylish  young  women  in  the  world  as  he  now  saw.  He  had 
forgotten  how  handsome  the  American  girl  is  in  her  best  ap 
pointment.  They  sailed  down  the  avenue  looking  as  fine 
as  young  fillies  at  a  show,  or  streamed  through  the  best 
shopping  streets  as  though  not  only  the  shops,  but  the 
world  belonged  to  them,  and  it  were  no  longer  the  meek, 
but  the  proud,  that  inherit  the  earth. 

If  in  the  throngs  on  the  streets  there  were  often  marked 
contrasts,  Keith  was  too  exhilarated  to  remark  it— at  least, 
at  first.  If  women  with  worn  faces  and  garments  unduly 
thin  in  the  frosty  air,  carrying  large  bundles  in  their 
pinched  hands,  hurried  by  as  though  hungry,  not  only  for 
food,  but  for  time  in  which  to  earn  food  ;  if  sad-eyed  men 
with  hollow  cheeks,  sunken  chests,  and  threadbare  clothes 
shambled  eagerly  along,  he  failed  to  note  them  in  his  first 
keen  enjoyment  of  the  pageant.  Old  clothes  meant  noth 
ing  where  he  came  from  5  they  might  be  the  badge  of 
perilous  enterprise  and  well-paid  industry,  and  food  and 
fire  were  at  least  common  to  all. 

Keith,  indeed,  moved  about  almost  in  a  trance,  absorbing 
and  enjoying  the  sights.  It  was  Humanity  in  flood  ,•  Life 
at  full  tide. 

Many  a  woman  and  not  a  few  men  turned  to  take  a 
second  look  at  the  tanned,  eager  face  and  straight,  supple 
figure,  as,  with  smiling,  yet  keen,  eyes,  he  stalked  along 
with  the  free,  swinging  gait  caught  on  the  mountains,  so 
different  from  the  quick,  short  steps  of  the  city  man.  Beg- 

224 


KEITH   VISITS   NEW   YORK 

gars,  and  some  who  from  their  look  and  apparel  might  not 
have  been  beggars,  applied  to  him  so  often  that  he  said  to 
one  of  them,  a  fairly  well-dressed  man  with  a  nose  of  a 
slightly  red  tinge  : 

"Well,  I  must  have  a  very  benevolent  face  or  a  very 
credulous  one  f  " 

"You  have,"  said  the  man,  with  brazen  frankness, 
pocketing  the  half-dollar  given  him  on  his  tale  of  a  picked 
pocket  and  a  remittance  that  had  gone  wrong. 

Keith  laughed  and  passed  on. 

Meantime,  Keith  was  making  some  discoveries.  He  did 
not  at  first  call  on  Norman  Wentworth.  He  had  a  feeling 
that  it  might  appear  as  if  he  were  using  his  friendship 
for  a  commercial  purpose.  He  presented  his  business  let 
ters.  His  letters,  however,  failed  to  have  the  weight  he 
had  expected.  The  persons  whom  he  had  met  down  in 
New  Leeds,  during  their  brief  visits  there,  were,  somehow, 
very  different  when  met  in  New  York.  Some  whom  he 
called  on  were  civil  enough  to  him ;  but  as  soon  as  he 
broached  his  business  they  froze  up.  The  suggestion  that 
he  had  coal-property  to  sell  sent  them  down  to  zero.  Their 
eyes  would  glint  with  a  shrewd  light  and  their  faces  harden 
into  ice.  One  or  two  told  him  plainly  that  they  had  no 
money  to  embark  in  "wild-cat  schemes." 

Mr.  Creamer  of  Creamer,  Crustback  &  Company,  Capi 
talists,  a  tall,  broad-shouldered  man,  with  a  strongly  cut 
nose  and  chin  and  keen,  gray  eyes,  that,  through  long 
habitude,  weighed  chances  with  an  infallible  appraisement, 
to  whom  Keith  had  a  letter  from  an  acquaintance,  one  of 
those  casual  letters  that  mean  anything  or  nothing,  informed 
him  frankly  that  he  had  "neither  time  nor  inclination  to 
discuss  enterprises,  ninety-nine  out  of  every  hundred  of 
which  were  frauds,  and  the  hundredth  generally  a  failure." 

"This  is  not  a  fraud,"  said  Keith,  hotly,  rising.  "I  do 
not  indorse  frauds,  sir."  He  began  to  draw  on  his  gloves. 
"If  I  cannot  satisfy  any  reasonable  man  of  the  fact  I  state, 
I  am  willing  to  fail.  I  ought  to  fail."  With  a  bow,  he 
turned  to  the  door. 

225 


GORDON   KEITH 

Something  in  Keith's  assurance  went  further  with  the 
shrewd-eyed  capitalist  than  his  politeness  had  done.  He 
shot  a  swift  glance  as  he  was  retiring  toward  the  door. 

"Why  didn't  Wickersham  make  money  down  there?" 
he  demanded,  half  in  query,  half  in  denial,  gazing  keenly 
over  his  gold-rimmed  glasses.  "He  usually  makes  money, 
even  if  others  lose  it." 

Mr.  Creamer  had  his  own  reasons  for  not  liking  Wicker- 
sham. 

Keith  was  standing  at  the  door. 

"For  two  or  three  reasons.  One  was  that  he  underesti 
mated  the  people  who  live  down  there,  and  thought  he 
could  force  them  into  selling  him  their  lands,  and  so  lost 
the  best  properties  there." 

"The  lands  you  have,  I  suppose? "  said  the  banker,  look 
ing  again  at  Keith  quickly. 

"Yes,  the  lands  I  have,  though  you  don't  believe  it," 
said  Keith,  looking  him  calmly  in  the  eyes. 

The  banker  was  gazing  at  the  young  man  ironically ; 
but,  as  he  observed  him,  his  credulity  began  to  give  way. 

That  stamp  of  truth  which  men  recognize  was  written 
on  him  unmistakably.  Mr.  Creamer's  mind  worked  quickly. 

"By  the  way,  you  came  from  down  there.  Did  you 
know  a  young  man  named  Rhodes  ?  He  was  an  engineer. 
Went  over  the  line." 

Keith's  eyes  brightened.  "He  is  one  of  my  best  friends. 
He  is  in  Russia  now." 

Mr.  Creamer  nodded.     "What  do  you  think  of  him?  " 

"He  is  one  of  the  best." 

Mr.  Creamer  nodded.  He  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  tell 
Keith  that  Rhodes  was  paying  his  addresses  to  his  daughter. 

"You  write  to  him,"  said  Keith.  "He  will  tell  you  just 
what  I  have.  Tell  him  they  are  the  Rawson  lands." 

Keith  opened  the  door.     "Good  morning,  sir." 

"One  moment ! "  Mr.  Creamer  leaned  back  in  his  chair. 
"Whom  else  do  you  know  here?"  he  asked  after  a  second. 

Keith  reflected  a  moment. 

226 


KEITH  VISITS   NEW   YOKK 

"I  know  Mr.  Wentworth." 

"Norman  Wentworth?" 

"Yes ;  I  know  him  very  well.  He  is  an  old  friend  of 
mine." 

"Have  you  been  to  him! " 

"No,  sir." 

"Why  not t» 

"Because  my  relations  with  him  are  entirely  personal. 
We  used  to  be  warm  friends,  and  I  did  not  wish  to  use  his 
friendship  for  me  as  a  ground  on  which  to  approach  him 
in  a  commercial  enterprise." 

Mr.  Creamer's  countenance  expressed  more  incredulity 
than  he  intended  to  show. 

"He  might  feel  under  obligations  to  do  for  me  what  he 
would  not  be  inclined  to  do  otherwise,"  Keith  explained. 

"Oh,  I  don't  think  you  need  have  any  apprehension  on 
that  score,"  Mr.  Creamer  said,  with  a  glint  of  amusement 
in  his  eyes.  "It  is  a  matter  of  business,  and  I  don't  think 
you  will  find  business  men  here  overstepping  the  bounds 
of  prudence  from  motives  of  sentiment." 

"There  is  no  man  whom  I  would  rather  have  go  into  it 
with  me  ;  but  I  shall  not  ask  him  to  do  it,  for  the  reason  I 
have  given.  Good  morning." 

The  banker  did  not  take  his  eyes  from  the  door  until  the 
sound  of  Keith's  steps  had  died  away  through  his  outer 
office.  Then  he  reflected  for  a  moment.  Presently  he 
touched  a  bell,  and  a  clerk  appeared  in  the  door. 

"Write  a  note  to  Mr.  Norman  Wentworth  and  ask  him 
to  drop  in  to  see  me— any  time  this  afternoon." 

"Yes,  sir." 

When  Norman  Wentworth  called  at  Mr.  Creamer's  office 
he  found  the  financier  in  a  good  humor.  The  market  had 
gone  well  of  late,  and  Mr.  Creamer's  moods  were  not  alto 
gether  unlike  the  mercury.  His  greeting  was  more  cordial 
than  usual.  After  a  brief  discussion  of  recent  events,  he 
pushed  a  card  across  to  his  visitor  and  asked  casually  : 

"What  do  you  know  about  that  man?" 

227 


GORDON  KEITH 

"Gordon  Keith ! "  exclaimed  the  younger  man,  in  sur 
prise.  "Is  he  in  New  York,  and  I  have  not  seen  him ! 
Why,  I  know  all  about  him.  He  used  to  be  an  old  friend 
of  mine.  We  were  boys  together  ever  so  long  ago." 

He  went  on  to  speak  warmly  of  him. 

"Well,  that  was  long  ago,"  said  Mr.  Creamer,  doubtfully. 
"Many  things  have  happened  in  that  time.  He  has  had 
time  to  change." 

"He  must  have  changed  a  good  deal  if  he  is  not  straight," 
declared  Norman.  "I  wonder  why  he  has  not  been  to 
see  me?" 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you  what  he  said,"  began  Mr.  Creamer. 

He  gave  Keith's  explanation. 

"Did  he  say  that?  Then  it's  true.  You  ought  to  know 
his  father.  He  is  a  regular  old  Don  Quixote." 

"The  Don  was  not  particularly  practical.  He  would 
not  have  done  much  with  coal  and  iron  lands,"  observed 
the  banker.  "What  do  you  know  about  this  man's  knowl 
edge  of  such  things  ?  " 

Norman  admitted  that  on  this  point  he  had  no  in 
formation. 

"He  says  he  knows  Wickersham— your  friend,"  said  Mr. 
Creamer,  with  a  sly  look  at  Norman. 

"Yes,  I  expect  he  does— if  any  one  knows  him.  He 
used  to  know  him.  What  does  he  say  of  him  ? " 

"Oh,  I  think  he  knows  him.  Well,  I  am  much  obliged 
to  you  for  coming  around,"  he  said  in  a  tone  of  dismissal. 
"You  are  coming  to  dine  with  us  soon,  I  believe?  The 
Lancasters  are  coming,  too.  And  we  expect  Rhodes  home. 
He's  due  next  week." 

"One  member  of  your  family  will  be  glad  to  see  him," 
said  Norman,  smiling.  "The  wedding  is  to  take  place  in 
a  few  weeks,  I  believe?" 

"I  hear  so,"  said  the  father.  "Fine  young  man,  Rhodes? 
Your  cousin,  isn't  he  ?  Been  very  successful  ?  " 

"Yes." 

Once,  as  Keith  passed  along  down  Broadway,  just  where 

228 


KEITH   VISITS   NEW   YOEK 

some  of  the  great  shops  were  at  that  time,  before  the  tide 
had  rolled  so  far  up-town,  a  handsome  carriage  and  pair 
drew  up  in  front  of  one  of  the  big  shops,  and  a  lady  stepped 
from  it  just  behind  him.  She  was  a  very  pretty  young 
woman,  and  richly  dressed.  A  straight  back  and  a  well-set 
head,  with  a  perfect  toilet,  gave  her  distinction  even  among 
the  handsomely  appointed  women  who  thronged  the  street 
that  sunny  morning,  and  many  a  woman  turned  and  looked 
at  her  with  approval  or  envy. 

The  years,  that  had  wrought  Keith  from  a  plain  country 
lad  into  a  man  of  affairs  of  such  standing  in  New  Leeds  that 
a  shrewd  operator  like  Kawson  had  selected  him  for  his 
representative,  had  also  wrought  a  great  change  in  Alice 
Lancaster.  Alice  had  missed  what  she  had  once  begun  to 
expect,  romance  and  all  that  it  meant  j  but  she  had  filled 
with  dignity  the  place  she  had  chosen.  If  Mr.  Lancaster's 
absorption  in  serious  concerns  left  her  life  more  sombre  than 
she  had  expected,  at  least  she  let  no  one  know  it.  Asso 
ciation  with  a  man  like  Mr.  Lancaster  had  steadied  and 
elevated  her.  His  high-mindedness  had  lifted  her  above 
the  level  of  her  worldly  mother  and  of  many  of  those  who 
constituted  the  set  in  which  she  lived. 

He  admired  her  immeasurably.  He  was  constantly  im 
pressed  by  the  difference  between  her  and  her  shallow- 
minded  and  silly  mother,  or  even  between  her  and  such  a 
young  woman  as  Mrs.  Wentworth,  who  lived  only  for  show 
and  extravagance,  and  appeared  in  danger  of  ruining  her 
husband  and  wrecking  his  happiness. 

It  was  Mrs.  Lancaster  who  descended  from  her  carriage 
as  Keith  passed  by.  Just  as  she  was  about  to  enter  the 
shop,  a  well-knit  figure  with  square  shoulders  and  springy 
step,  swinging  down  the  street,  caught  her  eye.  She  glanced 
that  way  and  gave  an  exclamation.  The  door  was  being 
held  open  for  her  by  a  blank-faced  automaton  in  a  many- 
buttoned  uniform  ;  so  she  passed  in,  but  pausing  just  inside, 
she  glanced  back  through  the  window.  The  next  instant 
she  left  the  shop  and  gazed  down  the  street  again.  But 

229 


GOKDON   KEITH 

Keith  had  turned  a  corner,  and  so  Alice  Lancaster  did  not 
see  him,  though  she  stood  on  tiptoe  to  try  and  distinguish 
him  again  in  the  crowd. 

"Well,  I  would  have  sworn  that  that  was  Gordon  Keith," 
she  said  to  herself,  as  she  turned  away,  "if  he  had  not  been 
so  broad-shouldered  and  good-looking."  And  wherever 
she  moved  the  rest  of  the  day  her  eyes  wandered  up  and 
down  the  street. 

Once,  as  she  was  thus  engaged,  Ferdy  Wickersham  came 
up.  He  was  dressed  in  the  tip  of  the  fashion  and  looked 
very  handsome. 

"Who  is  the  happy  man?" 

The  question  was  so  in  keeping  with  her  thought  that 
she  blushed  unexpectedly. 

"No  one." 

"Ah,  not  me,  then?  But  I  know  it  was  some  one.  No 
woman  looks  so  expectant  and  eager  for  'no  one.' " 

"Do  you  think  I  am  like  you,  perambulating  streets  try 
ing  to  make  conquests  ?  "  she  said,  with  a  smile. 

"You  do  not  have  to  try,"  he  answered  lazily.  "You 
do  it  simply  by  being  on  the  street.  I  am  playing  in  great 
luck  to-day." 

"Have  you  seen  Louise  this  morning?"  she  asked. 

He  looked  her  full  in  the  face.  "I  see  no  one  but  you 
when  you  are  around." 

She  laughed  lightly. 

"Ferdy,  you  will  begin  to  believe  that  after  a  while,  if 
you  do  not  stop  saying  it  so  often." 

"I  shall  never  stop  saying  it,  because  it  is  true,"  he  re 
plied  imperturbably,  turning  his  dark  eyes  on  her,  the  lids 
a  little  closed. 

"You  have  got  so  in  the  habit  of  saying  it  that  you  re 
peat  it  like  my  parrot  that  I  taught  once,  when  I  was 
younger  and  vainer,  to  say,  *  Pretty  Alice.'  He  says  it  all 
the  time." 

"Sensible  bird,"  said  Mr.  Wickersham,  calmly.  "Come 
and  drive  me  up  to  the  Park  and  let's  have  a  stroll.  I 

230 


KEITH   VISITS   NEW  YOKK 

know  such  a  beautiful  walk.  There  are  so  many  people 
out  to-day.  I  saw  the  lady  of  the  ( cat-eyes  and  cat-claws ' 
go  by  just  now,  seeking  some  one  whom  she  can  turn  again 
and  rend."  It  was  the  name  she  had  given  Mrs.  Nailor. 

"I  do  not  care  who  is  out.  Are  you  going  to  the  Went- 
worths'  this  evening?"  she  asked  irrelevantly. 

"No  ;  I  rarely  go  there.  Will  you  mention  that  to  Mrs. 
Nailor  ?  She  apparently  has  not  that  confidence  in  my  word 
that  I  could  have  expected  in  one  so  truthful  as  herself." 

Mrs.  Lancaster  laughed. 

"Ferdy— "  she  began,  and  then  paused  irresolute. 
"However— 

"Well,  what  is  it?    Say  it." 

"You  ought  not  to  go  there  so  often  as  you  do." 

"  Why  ?  "     His  eyes  were  full  of  insolence. 

"Good-by.  Drive  home,"  she  said  to  the  coachman, 
in  a  tone  intentionally  loud  enough  for  her  friend  to  hear. 

Ferdy  Wickersham  strolled  on  down  the  street,  and  a 
few  minutes  later  was  leaning  in  at  the  door  of  Mrs.  Went- 
worth's  carriage,  talking  very  earnestly  to  the  lady  inside. 

Mr.  Wickersham's  attentions  to  Louise  Wentworth  had 
begun  to  be  the  talk  of  the  town.  Young  Mrs.  Wentworth 
was  not  a  person  to  allow  herself  to  be  shelved.  She  did 
not  propose  that  the  older  lady  who  bore  that  name  should 
be  known  by  it.  She  declared  she  would  play  second  fiddle 
to  no  one.  But  she  discovered  that  the  old  lady  who  lived 
in  the  old  mansion  on  Washington  Square  was  "Mrs.  Went 
worth,"  and  that  Mrs.  Wentworth  occupied  a  position  from 
which  she  was  not  to  be  moved.  After  a  little  she  herself 
was  known  as  "Mrs.  Norman."  It  was  the  first  time  Mrs. 
Norman  had  ever  had  command  of  much  money.  Her 
mother  had  made  a  good  appearance  and  dressed  her 
daughter  handsomely,  but  to  carry  out  her  plans  she  had 
had  to  stint  and  scrape  to  make  both  ends  meet.  Mrs.  Cald- 
well  told  one  of  her  friends  that  her  rings  knew  the  way 
to  the  pawnbroker's  so  well  that  if  she  threw  them  in  the 
street  they  would  roll  into  his  shop. 

231 


GORDON   KEITH 

This  struggle  Louise  had  witnessed  with  that  easy  in 
difference  which  was  part  her  nature  and  part  her  youth. 
She  had  been  brought  up  to  believe  she  was  a  beauty,  and 
she  did  believe  it.  Now  that  she  had  the  chance,  she 
determined  to  make  the  most  of  her  triumph.  She  would 
show  people  that  she  knew  how  to  spend  money  ;  embellish 
ment  was  the  aim  of  her  life,  and  she  did  show  them.  Her 
toilets  were  the  richest  j  her  equipage  was  the  handsomest 
and  best  appointed.  Her  entertainments  soon  were  among 
the  most  splendid  in  the  city. 

Those  who  were  accustomed  to  wealth  and  to  parade  won 
dered  both  at  Mrs.  Norman's  tastes  and  at  her  gratification 
of  them. 

All  the  town  applauded.  They  had  had  no  idea  that  the 
Wentworths,  as  rich  as  they  knew  them  to  be,  had  so  much 
money. 

"She  must  have  Aladdin's  lamp,"  they  said. 

Only  old  Mrs.  Wentworth  looked  grave  and  disapproving 
at  the  extravagance  of  her  daughter-in-law.  Still  she  never 
said  a  word  of  it,  and  when  the  grandson  came  she  was  too 
overjoyed  to  complain  of  anything. 

It  was  only  of  late  that  people  had  begun  to  whisper  of 
the  frequency  with  which  Ferdy  Wickersham  was  seen 
with  Mrs.  Norman.  Certain  it  was  that  he  was  with  her  a 
great  deal. 

That  evening  Alice  Lancaster  was  dining  with  the  Nor 
man  Wentworths.  She  was  equally  good  friends  with 
them  and  with  their  children,  who  on  their  part  idolized 
her  and  considered  her  to  be  their  especial  property.  Her 
appearance  was  always  the  signal  for  a  romp.  Whenever 
she  went  to  the  Wentworths'  she  always  paid  a  visit  to  the 
nursery,  from  which  she  would  return  breathless  and  di 
shevelled,  with  an  expression  of  mingled  happiness  and  pain 
in  her  blue  eyes.  Louise  Wentworth  knew  well  why  the 
longing  look  was  there,  and  though  usually  cold  and 
statuesque,  she  always  softened  to  Alice  Lancaster  then 
more  than  she  was  wont  to  do. 

232 


KEITH  VISITS   NEW  YOKK 

"Alice  pines  for  children,"  she  said  to  Norman,  who 
pinched  her  cheek  and,  like  a  man,  told  her  she  thought 
every  one  as  romantic  and  as  affectionate  as  herself.  Had 
Mrs.  Nailor  heard  this  speech  she  would  have  blinked  her 
innocent  eyes  and  have  purred  with  silent  thoughts  on  the 
blindness  of  men. 

This  evening  Mrs.  Lancaster  had  come  down  from  the 
nursery,  where  shouts  of  childish  merriment  had  told  of 
her  romps  with  the  ringletted  young  brigand  who  ruled 
there,  and  was  sitting  quite  silent  in  the  deep  arm-chair  in 
an  attitude  of  profound  reflection,  her  head  thrown  back, 
her  white  arms  resting  languidly  on  the  arms  of  the  chair, 
her  face  unusually  thoughtful,  her  eyes  on  the  gilded 
ceiling. 

Mrs.  Wentworth  watched  her  for  a  moment  silently,  and 
then  said  : 

"You  must  not  let  the  boy  tyrannize  over  you  so.'7 

Mrs.  Lancaster's  reply  was  complete  : 

"I  love  it ;  I  just  love  it ! " 

Presently  Mrs.  Wentworth  spoke  again. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you  this  evening?  You  seem 
quite  distraite." 

"I  saw  a  ghost  to-day."     She  spoke  without  moving. 

Mrs.  Wentworth's  face  took  on  more  interest. 

"What  do  you  mean?     Who  was  it? " 

"I  mean  I  saw  a  ghost ;  I  might  say  two  ghosts,  for  I 
saw  in  imagination  also  the  ghost  of  myself  as  I  was  when 
a  girl.  I  saw  the  man  I  was  in  love  with  when  I  was 
seventeen." 

"I  thought  you  were  in  love  with  Ferdy  then?" 

"No  ;  never."     She  spoke  with  sudden  emphasis. 

"How  interesting  !  And  you  congratulated  yourself  on 
your  escape  ?  We  always  do.  I  was  violently  in  love  with 
a  little  hotel  clerk,  with  oily  hair,  a  snub- nose,  and  a  waxed 
black  moustache,  in  the  Adirondacks  when  I  was  that  age." 

Mrs.  Lancaster  made  no  reply  to  this,  and  her  hostess 
looked  at  her  keenly. 

233 


GORDON   KEITH 

"Where  was  it?  How  long  before—?"  She  started  to 
ask,  how  long  before  she  was  married,  but  caught  herself. 
"What  did  he  look  like?  He  must  have  been  good-look 
ing,  or  you  would  not  be  so  pensive." 

"He  looked  like— a  man." 

"How  old  was  he— I  mean,  when  he  fell  in  love  with 
you  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Wentworth,  with  a  sort  of  gasp,  as  she  re 
called  Mr.  Lancaster's  gray  hair  and  elderly  appearance. 

"Rather  young.  He  was  only  a  few  years  older  than  I 
was;  a  young— what's  his  name?— Hercules,  that  brought 
me  down  a  mountain  in  his  arms  the  second  time  I  ever 
saw  him." 

"Alice  Lancaster ! " 

"I  had  broken  my  leg— almost.  I  had  got  a  bad  fall 
from  a  horse  and  could  not  walk,  and  he  happened  to 
come  along." 

"Of  course.  How  romantic!  Was  he  a  doctor?  Did 
you  do  it  on  purpose  ?  " 

Mrs.  Lancaster  smiled. 

"No  j  a  young  schoolmaster  up  in  the  mountains.  He 
was  not  handsome— not  then.  But  he  was  fine-looking, 
eyes  that  looked  straight  at  you  and  straight  through  you  ; 
the  whitest  teeth  you  ever  saw  ;  and  shoulders  !  He  could 
carry  a  sack  of  salt ! "  At  the  recollection  a  faint  smile 
nickered  about  her  lips. 

"Why  didn't  you  marry  him?  " 

"He  had  not  a  cent  in  the  world.  He  was  a  poor  young 
school-teacher,  but  of  a  very  distinguished  family.  How 
ever,  mamma  took  fright,  and  whisked  me  away  as  if  he 
had  been  a  pestilence." 

"Oh,  naturally!" 

"And  he  was  too  much  in  love  with  me.  But  for  that  I 
think  I  should  not  have  given  him  up.  I  was  dreadfully 
cut  up  for  a  little  while.  And  he—"  She  did  not  finish 
the  sentence. 

On  this  Mrs.  Wentworth  made  no  observation,  though 
the  expression  about  her  mouth  changed. 

234 


KEITH   VISITS   NEW   YOKK 

"He  made  a  reputation  afterwards.  I  knew  he  would. 
He  was  bound  to  succeed.  I  believed  in  him  even  then. 
He  had  ideals.  Why  don't  men  have  ideals  now?" 

"Some  of  them  do,"  asserted  Mrs.  Wentworth. 

"Yes ;  Norman  has.  I  mean  unmarried  men.  I  heard  he 
made  a  fortune,  or  was  making  one— or  something." 

"Oh!" 

"He  knew  more  than  any  one  I  ever  saw— and  made 
you  want  to  know.  All  I  ever  read  he  set  me  to.  And  he 
is  awfully  good-looking.  I  had  no  idea  he  would  be  so 
good-looking.  But  I  tell  you  this :  no  woman  that  ever 
saw  him  ever  forgot  him." 

"Is  he  married?" 

"I  don't  think  so— no.  If  he  had  been  I  should  have 
heard  it.  He  really  believed  in  me." 

Mrs.  Wentworth  glanced  at  her  with  interest. 

"Where  is  he  staying?" 

"I  do  not  know.     I  saw  him  through  a  shop- window." 

"What !     Did  you  not  speak  to  him  ?  " 

"I  did  not  get  a  chance.  When  I  came  out  of  the  shop 
he  was  gone." 

"That  was  sad.  It  would  have  been  quite  romantic, 
would  it  not  ?  But,  perhaps,  after  all,  he  did  not  make  his 
fortune  ?  "  Mrs.  Wentworth  looked  complacent. 

"He  did  if  he  set  his  mind  to  it,"  declared  Mrs.  Lancaster. 

"How  about  Ferdy  Wickersham?"  The  least  little 
light  of  malevolence  crept  into  Mrs.  Wentworth's  eyes. 

Mrs.  Lancaster  gave  a  shrug  of  impatience,  and  pushed  a 
photograph  on  a  small  table  farther  away,  as  if  it  incom 
moded  her. 

"Oh,  Ferdy  Wickersham !  Ferdy  Wickersham  to  that 
man  is  a  heated  room  to  the  breath  of  hills  and  forests." 
She  spoke  with  real  warmth,  and  Mrs.  Wentworth  gazed 
at  her  curiously  for  a  few  seconds. 

"Still,  I  rather  fancy  for  a  constancy  you'd  prefer  the 
heated  rooms  to  the  coldness  of  the  hills.  Your  gowns 
would  not  look  so  well  in  the  forest." 

235 


GOKDON   KEITH 

It  was  a  moment  before  Mrs.  Lancaster's  face  relaxed. 

"I  suppose  I  should/7  she  said  slowly,  with  something 
very  like  a  sigh.  "He  was  the  only  man  I  ever  knew  who 
made  me  do  what  I  did  not  want  to  do  and  made  me  wish 
to  be  something  better  than  I  was/'  she  added  absently. 

Mrs.  Wentworth  glanced  at  her  somewhat  impatiently, 
but  she  went  on  : 

"I  was  very  romantic  then  ;  and  you  should  have  heard 
him  read  the  '  Idylls  of  the  King.'  He  had  the  most  beau 
tiful  voice.  He  made  you  live  in  Arthur's  court,  because 
he  lived  there  himself." 

Mrs.  Wentworth  burst  into  laughter,  but  it  was  not  very 
merry. 

"My  dear  Alice,  you  must  have  been  romantic.  How 
old  were  you,  did  you  say  ?  " 

"It  was  three  years  before  I  was  married,"  said  Mrs. 
Lancaster,  firmly. 

Her  friend  gazed  at  her  with  a  puzzled  expression  on 
her  face. 

"Oh  !  Now,  my  dear  Alice,  don't  let's  have  any  more  of  this 
sentimentalizing.  I  never  indulge  in  it ;  it  always  gives 
me  a  headache.  One  might  think  you  were  a  school-girl." 

At  the  word  a  wood  in  all  the  bravery  of  Spring  sprang 
into  Alice's  mind.  A  young  girl  was  seated  on  the  mossy 
ground,  and  outstretched  at  her  feet  was  a  young  man, 
fresh-faced  and  clear-eyed,  quoting  a  poem  of  youth  and 
of  love. 

"Heaven  knows  I  wish  I  were,"  said  Mrs.  Lancaster, 
soberly.  "I  might  then  be  something  different  from  what 
I  am ! " 

"Oh,  nonsense  !  You  do  nothing  of  the  kind.  Here  are 
you,  a  rich  woman,  young,  handsome,  with  a  great  establish 
ment  ;  perfectly  free,  with  no  one  to  interfere  with  you  in 
any  way.  Now,  I — " 

"That's  just  it,"  broke  in  Mrs.  Lancaster,  bitterly. 
"Free !  Free  from  what  my  heart  aches  for.  Free  to 
dress  in  sables  and  diamonds  and  die  of  loneliness."  She 

236 


KEITH    VISITS   NEW  YOKK 

had  sat  up,  and  her  eyes  were  glowing  and  her  color  flash 
ing  in  her  cheeks  in  her  energy. 

Mrs.  Wentworth  looked  at  her  with  a  curious  expression 
in  her  eyes. 

"I  want  what  you  have,  Louise  Caldwell.  In  that  big 
house  with  only  ourselves  and  servants— sometimes  I 
could  wish  I  were  dead.  I  envy  every  woman  I  see  on 
the  street  with  her  children.  Yes,  I  am  free— too  free ! 
I  married  for  respect,  and  I  have  it.  But— I  want  devo 
tion,  sympathy.  You  have  it.  You  have  a  husband  who 
adores  you,  and  children  to  fill  your  heart,  cherish  it." 
The  light  in  her  eyes  was  almost  fierce  as  she  leaned  for 
ward,  her  hands  clasped  so  tightly  that  the  knuckles  showed 
white,  and  a  strange  look  passed  for  a  moment  over  Mrs. 
Wentworth's  face. 

"  You  are  enough  to  give  one  the  blue-devils ! "  she  ex 
claimed,  with  impatience.  "Let's  have  a  liqueur."  She 
touched  a  bell,  but  Mrs.  Lancaster  rose. 

"No;  I  will  go." 

"Oh,  yes ;  just  a  glass."  A  servant  appeared  like  an 
automaton  at  the  door. 

"What  will  you  have,  Alice?  "  But  Mrs.  Lancaster  was 
obdurate.  She  declined  the  invitation,  and  declared  that 
she  must  go,  as  she  was  going  to  the  opera ;  and  the  next 
moment  the  two  ladies  were  taking  leave  of  each  other 
with  gracious  words  and  the  formal  manner  that  obtains 
in  fashionable  society,  quite  as  if  they  had  known  each 
other  just  fifteen  minutes. 

Mrs.  Lancaster  drove  home,  leaning  very  far  back  in 
her  brougham. 

Mrs.  Wentworth,  too,  appeared  rather  fatigued  after  her 
guest  departed,  and  sat  for  fifteen  minutes  with  the  social 
column  of  a  newspaper  lying  in  her  lap  unscanned. 

"I  thought  she  and  Ferdy  liked  each  other,"  she  said  to 
herself;  "but  he  must  have  told  the  truth.  They  cannot 
have  cared  for  each  other.  I  think  she  must  have  been  in 
love  with  that  man." 

237 


CHAPTER  XVII 
KEITH  MEETS   NORMAN 

THE  day  after  Keith's  interview  with  Mr.  Creamer  he 
was  walking  up-town  more  slowly  than  was  his  wont ; 
for  gloom  was  beginning  to  take  the  place  where  disappoint 
ment  had  for  some  time  been  holding  session.  His  ex 
perience  that  day  had  been  more  than  usually  disheart 
ening.  These  people  with  all  their  shrewdness  appeared  to 
him  to  be  in  their  way  as  contracted  as  his  mountaineers. 
They  lived  to  amass  wealth,  yet  went  like  sheep  in  flocks, 
and  were  so  blind  that  they  could  not  recognize  a  great 
opportunity  when  it  was  presented.  They  were  mere  ma 
chines  that  ground  through  life  as  monotonously  as  the 
wheels  in  their  factories,  turning  out  riches,  riches,  riches. 

This  morning  Keith  had  come  across  an  article  in  a  news 
paper  which,  in  a  measure,  explained  his  want  of  success. 
It  was  an  article  on  New  Leeds.  It  praised,  in  florid  sen 
tences,  the  place  and  the  people,  gave  a  reasonably  true 
account  of  the  rise  of  the  town,  set  forth  in  a  veiled  way 
a  highly  colored  prospectus  of  the  Wickersham  properties, 
and  asserted  explicitly  that  all  the  lands  of  value  had  been 
secured  by  this  company,  and  that  such  as  were  now  being 
offered  outside  were  those  which  Wickersham  had  refused 
as  valueless  after  a  thorough  and  searching  examination. 
The  falsity  of  the  statements  made  Keith  boil  with  rage. 
Mr.  J.  Quincy  Plume  immediately  flashed  into  his  mind. 

As  he  walked  along,  the  newspaper  clutched  in  his  hand, 

238 


KEITH   MEETS   NOKMAN 

a  man  brushed  against  him.  Keith's  mind  was  far  away 
on  Quincy  Plume  and  Ferdy  Wickersham ;  but  instinc 
tively,  as  his  shoulder  touched  the  stranger's,  he  said  : 

"I  beg  your  pardon." 

At  the  words  the  other  turned  and  glanced  at  him  cas 
ually  ;  then  stopped,  turned  and  caught  up  with  him,  so  as 
to  take  a  good  look  at  his  face.  The  next  second  a  hand 
was  on  Keith's  shoulder. 

"Why,  Gordon  Keith  ! " 

Keith  glanced  up  in  a  maze  at  the  vigorous-looking,  well- 
dressed  young  man  who  was  holding  out  his  gloved  hand 
to  him,  his  blue  eyes  full  of  a  very  pleasant  light.  Keith's 
mind  had  been  so  far  away  that  for  a  second  it  did  not 
return.  Then  a  light  broke  over  his  face.  He  seized  the 
other's  hand. 

"Norman  Wentworth ! " 

The  greeting  between  the  two  was  so  cordial  that  men 
hurrying  by  turned  to  look  back  at  the  pleasant  faces,  and 
their  own  set  countenances  softened. 

Norman  demanded  where  Keith  had  just  come  from  and 
how  long  he  had  been  in  town,  piling  his  questions  one  on 
the  other  with  eager  cordiality. 

Keith  looked  sheepish,  and  began  to  explain  in  a  rather 
shambling  fashion  that  he  had  been  there  some  time  and 
"intended  to  hunt  him  up,  of  course"  ;  but  he  had  "been 
so  taken  up  with  business,"  etc.,  etc. 

"I  heard  you  were  here  on  business.  That  was  the  way  I 
came  to  know  you  were  in  town,"  explained  Norman,  "and 
I  have  looked  everywhere  for  you.  I  hope  you  have  been 
successful?"  He  was  smiling.  But  Keith  was  still  sore 
from  the  treatment  he  had  received  in  one  or  two  offices 
that  morning. 

"I  have  not  been  successful,"  he  said,  "and  I  felt  sure 
that  I  should  be.  I  have  discovered  that  people  here 
are  very  much  like  people  elsewhere ;  they  are  very  like 
sheep." 

"And  very  suspicious,  timid  sheep  at  that,"  said  Norman, 

239 


GOKDON   KEITH 

"They  have  often  gone  for  wool  and  got  shorn.  So  every 
one  has  to  be  tested.  An  unknown  man  has  a  hard  time 
here.  I  suppose  they  would  not  look  into  your  plan  f  " 

"They  classed  me  with  'pedlers,  book-agents,  and  beggars ' 
—I  saw  the  signs  up  j  looked  as  if  they  thought  I  was  a  thief. 
I  am  not  used  to  being  treated  like  a  swindler." 

"The  same  old  Keith  !  You  must  remember  how  many 
swindlers  they  have  to  deal  with,  my  boy.  It  is  natural 
that  they  should  require  a  guarantee— I  mean  an  introduc 
tion  of  some  kind.  You  remember  what  one  of  them  said 
not  long  ago  ?  ' A  man  spends  one  part  of  his  life  making 
a  fortune  and  the  rest  of  it  trying  to  keep  others  from 
stealing  it  from  him.'  You  ought  to  have  come  to  me. 
You  must  come  and  dine  with  me  this  evening,  and  we 
will  talk  it  over.  Perhaps,  I  can  help  you.  I  want  to 
show  you  my  little  home,  and  I  have  the  finest  boy  in  the 
world." 

At  the  tone  of  cordial  sincerity  in  his  voice,  Keith  soft 
ened.  He  laid  his  hand  on  the  back  of  Norman's  and 
closed  it  tightly. 

"I  knew  I  could  always  count  on  you,  and  I  meant,  of 
course,  to  come  and  see  you.  The  reason  I  have  not  come 
before  I  will  explain  to  you  sometime.  I  was  feeling  a 
little  sore  over  a  matter— sheer  lies  that  some  one  has 
written."  He  shook  the  newspaper  in  his  hand. 

"Oh,  don't  mind  that  paper,"  said  Norman.  "The  col 
umns  of  that  paper  are  for  hire.  They  belong  at  present 
to  an  old  acquaintance  of  ours.  They  do  me  the  honor  to 
pay  their  compliments  to  my  affairs  now  and  then." 

Keith  walked  up  the  street  with  a  warm  feeling  about  his 
heart.  That  friendly  face  and  kindly  pressure  of  the  hand 
had  cheered  him  like  sunshine  in  a  wintry  day,  and  trans 
formed  the  cold,  cheerless  city  into  an  abode  of  life  and 
happiness.  The  crowds  that  thronged  by  him  once  more 
took  on  interest  for  him.  The  faces  once  more  softened 
into  human  fellowship. 

That  evening,  when  Keith  arrived  at  Norman  Went- 

240 


KEITH   MEETS  NORMAN 

worth's,  he  found  that  what  he  had  termed  his  "little  house  " 
was,  in  fact,  a  very  ample  and  commodious  mansion  on  one 
of  the  most  fashionable  avenues  in  the  city. 

Outside  there  was  nothing  to  distinguish  it  particularly 
from  the  scores  of  other  handsome  houses  that  stretched  for 
blocks  up  and  down  the  street  with  ever-recurrent  brown- 
stone  monotony.  They  were  as  much  alike  as  so  many 
box-stalls  in  a  stable. 

"If  I  had  to  live  in  one  of  these,"  thought  Keith,  as  he 
was  making  his  way  to  keep  his  appointment,  "I  should 
have  to  begin  and  count  my  house  from  the  corner.  No 
wonder  the  people  are  all  so  much  alike  !  " 

Inside,  however,  the  personal  taste  of  the  owner  counted 
for  much  more,  and  when  Keith  was  admitted  by  the  vel 
vety-stepped  servant,  he  found  himself  in  a  scene  of  luxury 
for  which  nothing  that  Norman  had  said  had  prepared  him. 

A  hall,  rather  contracted,  but  sumptuous  in  its  furnish 
ings,  opened  on  a  series  of  drawing-rooms  absolutely  splen 
did  with  gilt  and  satin.  One  room,  all  gold  and  yellow, 
led  into  another  all  blue  satin,  and  that  into  one  where 
the  light  filtered  through  soft-tinted  shades  on  tapestries 
and  rugs  of  deep  crimson. 

Keith  could  not  help  thinking  what  a  fortunate  man 
Norman  was,  and  the  difference  between  his  friend's  situa 
tion  in  this  bower  of  roses,  and  his  own  in  his  square,  bare 
little  box  on  the  windy  mountain-side,  insensibly  flashed 
over  him.  This  was  "an  establishment "  !  How  unequally 
Fortune  scattered  her  gifts  !  Just  then,  with  a  soft  rustle 
of  silk,  the  portieres  were  parted,  and  Mrs.  Wentworth 
appeared.  She  paused  for  a  second  just  under  the  arch,  and 
the  young  man  wondered  if  she  knew  how  effective  she  was. 
She  was  a  vision  of  lace  and  loveliness.  A  figure  straight 
and  sinuous,  above  the  middle  height,  which  would  have 
been  quite  perfect  but  for  being  slightly  too  full,  and  which 
struck  one  before  one  looked  at  the  face  ;  coloring  that  was 
rich  to  brilliance  ;  abundant,  beautiful  hair  with  a  glint  of 
lustre  on  it ;  deep  hazel  eyes,  the  least  bit  too  close  to- 

241 


GORDON  KEITH 

gether ;  and  features  that  were  good  and  only  just  missed 
being  fine.  Keith  had  remembered  her  as  beautiful,  but 
as  Mrs.  Wentworth  stood  beneath  the  azure  portieres,  her 
long,  bare  arms  outstretched,  her  lips  parted  in  a  half-smile 
of  welcome,  she  was  much  more  striking-looking  than 
Keith's  memory  had  recorded.  As  he  gazed  on  her,  the 
expression  on  his  face  testified  his  admiration. 

She  came  forward  with  the  same  gratified  smile  on  her 
face  and  greeted  him  with  formal  words  of  welcome  as 
Norman's  old  friend.  Her  thought  was,  "What  a  strong- 
looking  man  he  is  !  Like  a  picture  I  have  seen  somewhere. 
Why  doesn't  Ferdy  like  him  t " 

As  she  sank  into  a  soft  divan,  and  with  a  sudden  twist 
her  train  fell  about  her  feet,  making  an  artistic  drapery, 
Keith  experienced  a  sense  of  delight.  He  did  not  dream 
that  Mrs.  Wentworth  knew  much  better  than  he  precisely 
the  pose  to  show  the  curve  of  her  white  full  throat  and  round 
arm.  The  demands  of  notorious  beauty  were  already  be 
ginning  to  tell  on  her,  and  even  while  she  spoke  gracious 
words  of  her  husband's  friendship  for  him,  she  from  time 
to  time  added  a  touch  here  and  a  soft  caress  there  with 
her  long  white  hands  to  make  the  arrangement  the  more 
complete.  It  was  almost  too  perfect  to  be  unconscious. 

Suddenly  Keith  heard  Norman's  voice  outside,  apparently 
on  the  stair,  calling  cheerily  "Good-by"  to  some  one,  and 
the  next  second  he  came  hastily  into  the  drawing-room. 
His  hair  was  rumpled  and  his  necktie  a  trifle  awry.  As 
he  seized  and  wrung  Keith's  hand  with  unfeigned  hearti 
ness,  Keith  was  suddenly  conscious  of  a  change  in  every 
thing.  This  was  warmth,  sincerity,  and  the  beautiful  room 
suddenly  became  a  home.  Mrs.  Wentworth  appeared  some 
what  shocked  at  his  appearance. 

"Well,  Norman,  you  are  a  sight !  Just  look  at  your 
necktie  ! " 

"That  ruffian!"  he  laughed,  feeling  at  his  throat  and 
trying  to  adjust  the  crooked  tie. 

"What  will  Mr.  Keith  think?" 

242 


KEITH   MEETS   NOKMAN 

"Oh,  pshaw !  Keith  thinks  all  right.  Keith  is  one  of 
the  men  I  don't  have  to  apologize  to.  But  if  I  do"— he 
turned  to  Keith,  smiling— "I'll  show  you  the  apology. 
Come  along."  He  seized  Keith  by  the  hand  and  started 
toward  the  door. 

"You  are  not  going  to  take  Mr.  Keith  up-stairs!"  ex 
claimed  his  wife.  "Remember,  Mr.  Keith  may  not  share 
your  enthusiasm." 

"Wait  until  he  sees  the  apology.  Come  along,  Keith." 
He  drew  Keith  toward  the  door. 

"But,  Norman,  I  don't  think—"  began  Mrs.  Wentworth. 

What  she  did  not  think  was  lost  to  the  two  men  ;  for 
Norman,  not  heeding  her,  had,  with  the  eagerness  of  a 
boy,  dragged  his  visitor  out  of  the  door  and  started  up  the 
stairs,  telling  him  volubly  of  the  treat  that  was  in  store  for 
him  in  the  perfections  of  a  certain  small  young  gentleman 
who  had  been  responsible  for  his  tardiness  in  appearing 
below. 

When  Norman  threw  back  a  silken  portiere  up-stairs 
and  flung  open  a  door,  the  scene  that  greeted  Keith  was 
one  that  made  him  agree  that  Norman  was  fully  justified.  A 
yellow-haired  boy  was  rolling  on  the  floor,  kicking  up  his 
little  pink  legs  in  all  the  abandon  of  his  years,  while  a  blue- 
eyed  little  girl  was  sitting  in  a  nurse's  lap,  making  strenu 
ous  efforts  to  join  her  brother  on  the  floor. 

At  sight  of  his  father,  the  boy,  with  a  whoop,  scram 
bled  to  his  feet,  and,  with  outstretched  arms  and  open 
mouth,  showing  all  his  little  white  teeth,  made  a  rush  for 
him,  while  the  young  lady  suddenly  changed  her  efforts  to 
descend,  and  began  to  jump  up  and  down  in  a  frantic 
ecstasy  of  delight. 

Norman  gathered  the  boy  up,  and  as  soon  as  he  could 
disentwine  his  little  arms  from  about  his  neck,  turned  him 
toward  Keith.  The  child  gave  the  stranger  one  of  those 
calm,  scrutinizing  looks  that  children  give,  and  then,  his 
face  suddenly  breaking  into  a  smile,  with  a  rippling  laugh 
•of  good-comradeship,  he  sprang  into  Keith's  outstretched 

243 


GORDON   KEITH 

arms.  That  gentleman's  necktie  was  in  danger  of  under 
going  the  same  damaging  process  that  had  incurred  Mrs. 
Norman's  criticism,  when  the  youngster  discovered  that  lady 
herself,  standing  at  the  door.  Scrambling  down  from  his 
perch  on  Keith's  shoulder,  the  boy,  with  a  shout,  rushed 
toward  his  mother.  Mrs.  Wentworth,  with  a  little  shriek, 
stopped  him  and  held  him  off  from  her ;  she  could  not 
permit  him  to  disarrange  her  toilet }  her  coiffure  had  cost 
too  much  thought ;  but  the  pair  were  evidently  on  terms 
of  good-fellowship,  and  the  light  in  the  mother's  eyes  even 
as  she  restrained  the  boy's  attempt  at  caresses  changed  her, 
and  gave  Keith  a  new  insight  into  her  character. 

Keith  and  the  hostess  returned  to  the  drawing-room  be 
fore  Norman,  and  she  was  no  longer  the  professional  beauty, 
the  cold  woman  of  the  world,  the  mere  fashionable  hostess. 
The  doors  were  flung  open  more  than  once  as  Keith  talked 
warmly  of  the  boy,  and  within  Keith  got  glimpses  of  what 
was  hidden  there,  which  made  him  rejoice  again  that  his 
friend  had  such  a  treasure.  These  glimpses  of  unexpected 
softness  drew  him  nearer  to  her  than  he  had  ever  ex 
pected  to  be,  and  on  his  part  he  talked  to  her  with  a 
frankness  and  earnestness  which  sank  deep  into  her  mind, 
and  opened  the  way  to  a  warmer  friendship  than  she 
usually  gave. 

"Norman  is  right,"  she  said  to  herself.     "This  is  a  man." 

At  the  thought  a  light  flashed  upon  her.  It  suddenly 
came  to  her. 

This  is  "the  ghost"!  Yet  could  it  be  possible?  She 
solved  the  question  quickly. 

"Mr.  Keith,  did  you  ever  know  Alice  Lancaster?" 

"Alice  Lancaster—?"  For  a  bare  second  he  looked 
puzzled.  "Oh,  Miss  Alice  Yorke?  Yes,  a  long  time  ago." 
He  was  conscious  that  his  expression  had  changed.  So  he 
added  :  "I  used  to  know  her  very  well." 

"Decidedly,  this  is  the  ghost,"  reflected  Mrs.  Wentworth 
to  herself,  as  she  scanned  anew  Keith's  strong  features  and 
sinewy  frame.  "Alice  said  if  a  woman  had  ever  seen  him, 

244 


KEITH   MEETS   NOKMAN 

she  would  not  be  likely  to  forget  him,  and  I  think  she  was 
right." 

"Why  do  you  ask  me?"  inquired  Keith,  who  had  now 
quite  recovered  from  his  little  confusion.  "Of  course,  you 
know  her  ?  " 

"Yes,  very  well.  "We  were  at  school  together.  She  is 
my  best  friend,  almost."  She  shut  her  mouth  as  firmly  as 
though  this  were  the  last  sentence  she  ever  proposed  to 
utter ;  but  her  eyes,  as  they  rested  on  Keith's  face,  had  the 
least  twinkle  in  them.  Keith  did  not  know  how  much  of 
their  old  affair  had  been  told  her,  but  she  evidently  knew 
something,  and  it  was  necessary  to  show  her  that  he  had  re 
covered  from  it  long  ago  and  yet  retained  a  friendly  feel 
ing  for  Mrs.  Lancaster. 

"She  was  an  old  sweetheart  of  mine  long  ago ;  that  is,  I 
used  to  think  myself  desperately  in  love  with  her  a  hun 
dred  years  ago  or  so,  before  she  was  married— and  I  was, 
too,"  he  added. 

He  gained  not  the  least  idea  of  the  impression  this  made 
on  Mrs.  Wentworth. 

"She  was  talking  to  me  about  you  only  the  other  day," 
she  said  casually. 

Keith  again  made  a  feint  to  open  her  defence. 

"I  hope  she  said  kind  things  about  me?  I  deserve  some 
kindness  at  her  hands,  for  I  have  only  pleasant  memories 
of  her." 

"I  wonder  what  he  means  by  that?"  questioned  Mrs. 
Wentworth  to  herself,  and  then  added : 

"Oh,  yes ;  she  did.  Indeed,  she  was  almost  enthusiastic 
about  your— friendship."  Her  eyes  scanned  his  face 
lightly. 

"Has  she  fulfilled  the  promise  of  beauty  that  she  gave  as 
a  school-girl?  I  used  to  think  her  one  of  the  most  beauti 
ful  creatures  in  the  world ;  but  I  don't  know  that  I  was 
capable  of  judging  at  that  time,"  he  added,  with  a  smile, 
"for  I  remember  I  was  quite  desperate  about  her  for  a 
little  while."  He  tried  to  speak  naturally. 

245 


GOKDON   KEITH 

Mrs.  Wentworth's  eyes  rested  on  his  face  for  a  moment. 

"Why,  yes ;  many  think  her  much  handsomer  than  she 
ever  was.  She  is  one  of  the  married  beauties,  you  know." 
Her  eyes  just  swept  Keith's  face. 

"She  was  also  one  of  the  sweetest  girls  I  ever  knew/' 
Keith  said,  moved  for  some  reason  to  add  this  tribute. 

"Well,  I  don't  know  that  every  one  would  call  her  that. 
Indeed,  I  am  not  quite  sure  that  I  should  call  her  that  my 
self  always  ;  but  she  can  be  sweet.  My  children  adore  her, 
and  I  think  that  is  always  a  good  sign." 

"Undoubtedly.     They  judge  correctly,  because  directly." 

The  picture  of  a  young  girl  in  a  riding-habit  kneeling  in 
the  dust  with  a  chubby,  little,  ragged  child  in  her  arms 
flashed  before  Keith's  mental  vision.  And  he  almost  gave 
a  gasp. 

"Is  she  married  happily?"  he  asked.  "I  hope  she  is 
happy." 

"Oh,  as  happy  as  the  day  is  long,"  declared  Mrs.  Went- 
worth,  cheerfully.  Deep  down  in  her  eyes  was  a  wicked 
twinkle  of  malice.  Her  face  wore  a  look  of  content. 
"He  is  not  altogether  indifferent  yet,"  she  said  to  herself. 
And  when  Keith  said  firmly  that  he  was  very  glad  to  hear 
it,  she  did  him  the  honor  to  disbelieve  him. 

"Of  course,  you  know  that  Mr.  Lancaster  is  a  good  deal 
older  than  Alice  f  " 

Yes,  Keith  had  heard  so. 

"But  a  charming  man,  and  immensely  rich." 

"Yes."     Keith  began  to  look  grim. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  see  her?"  inquired  Mrs.  Went- 
worth,  finding  that  Keith  was  not  prepared  to  say  any 
more  on  the  subject. 

Keith  said  he  should  like  to  do  so  very  much.  He  hoped 
to  see  her  before  going  away  ;  but  he  could  not  tell. 

"She  is  married  now,  and  must  be  so  taken  up  with  her 
new  duties  that  I  fear  she  would  hardly  remember  me," 
he  added,  with  a  laugh.  "I  don't  think  I  ever  made  much 
impression  on  her." 

246 


KEITH   MEETS    NORMAN 

"Alice  Yorke  is  not  one  to  forget  her  friends.  Why? 
she  spoke  of  you  with  real  friendship/'  she  said,  smiling, 
thinking  to  herself,  Alice  likes  him,  and  he  is  still  in  love 
with  her.  This  begins  to  be  interesting. 

"A  woman  does  not  have  to  give  up  all  her  friends  when 
she  marries?  "  she  added,  with  her  eyes  on  Keith. 

Keith  smiled. 

"Oh,  no  j  only  her  lovers,  unless  they  turn  into  friends." 

"Of  course,  those,"  said  Mrs.  Wentworth,  who,  after  a 
moment's  reflection,  added,  "They  don't  always  do  that. 
Do  you  believe  a  woman  ever  forgets  entirely  a  man  she 
has  really  loved?" 

"She  does  if  she  is  happily  married  and  if  she  is  wise." 

"But  all  women  are  not  happily  married." 

"And,  perhaps,  all  are  not  wise,"  said  Keith. 

Some  association  of  ideas  led  him  to  say  suddenly  : 

"Tell  me  something  about  Ferdy  Wickersham.  He  was 
one  of  your  ushers,  wasn't  he  ?  "  He  was  surprised  to  see 
Mrs.  Wentworth's  countenance  change.  Her  eyelids  closed 
suddenly  as  if  a  glare  were  turned  unexpectedly  on  them, 
and  she  caught  her  breath. 

"Yes — I  have  known  him  since  we  were  children.  Of 
course,  you  know  he  was  desperately  in  love  with  Alice 
Lancaster?" 

Keith  said  he  had  heard  something  of  the  kind. 

"He  still  likes  her." 

"She  is  married,"  said  Keith,  decisively. 

"Yes." 

A  moment  later  Mrs.  Wentworth  drew  a  long  breath  and 
moistened  her  lips. 

"You  knew  him  at  the  same  time  that  you  first  knew 
Norman,  did  you  not?  "  She  was  simply  figuring  for  time. 

"Yes,  I  met  him  first  then,"  said  Keith. 

"Don't  you  think  Ferdy  has  changed  since  he  was  a 
boy  ?  "  she  demanded  after  a  moment's  reflection. 

"How  do  you  mean?"  Keith  was  feeling  very  uncom 
fortable,  and,  to  save  himself  an  answer,  plunged  along  : 

247 


GORDON   KEITH 

"Of  course  he  has  changed.'7  He  did  not  say  how,  nor 
did  he  give  Mrs.  Wentworth  time  to  explain  herself. 
"I  will  tell  you  one  thing,  though,"  he  said  earnestly  :  "he 
never  was  worthy  to  loose  the  latchet  of  your  husband's 
shoe." 

Mrs.  Wentworth's  face  changed  again  5  she  glanced  down 
for  a  second,  and  then  said  : 

"You  and  Norman  have  a  mutual  admiration  society." 

"We  have  been  friends  a  long  time,"  said  Keith,  thought 
fully. 

"But  even  that  does  not  always  count  for  so  much. 
Friendships  seem  so  easily  broken  these  days." 

"Because  there  are  so  few  Norman  Wentworths.  That 
man  is  blessed  who  has  such  a  friend,"  said  the  young  man, 
earnestly. 

Mrs.  Wentworth  looked  at  him  with  a  curious  light  in 
her  eyes,  and  as  she  gazed  her  face  grew  more  thoughtful. 
Then,  as  Norman  reappeared  she  changed  the  subject  ab 
ruptly. 

After  dinner,  while  they  were  smoking,  Norman  made 
Keith  tell  him  of  his  coal-lands  and  the  business  that  had 
brought  him  to  New  York.  To  Keith's  surprise,  he 
seemed  to  know  something  of  it  already. 

"You  should  have  come  to  me  at  first,"  he  said.  "I 
might,  at  least,  have  been  able  to  counteract  somewhat  the 
adverse  influence  that  has  been  working  against  you."  His 
brow  clouded  a  little. 

"Wickersham  appears  to  be  quite  a  personage  here.  I 
wonder  he  has  not  been  found  out,"  said  Keith  after  a  little 
reverie. 

Norman  shifted  slightly  in  his  chair.  "Oh,  he  is  not 
worth  bothering  about.  Give  me  your  lay-out  now." 

Keith  put  him  in  possession  of  the  facts,  and  he  became 
deeply  interested.  He  had,  indeed,  a  dual  motive  :  one  of 
friendship  for  Keith  ;  the  other  he  as  yet  hardly  confessed 
even  to  himself. 

The  next  day  Keith  met  Norman  by  appointment  and 

248 


KEITH   MEETS   NORMAN 

gave  him  his  papers.  And  a  day  or  two  afterwards  he  met 
a  number  of  his  friends  at  lunch. 

They  were  capitalists  and,  if  General  Keith's  old  dictum, 
that  gentlemen  never  discussed  money  at  table,  was  sound, 
they  would  scarcely  have  met  his  requirement;  for  the 
talk  was  almost  entirely  of  money.  When  they  rose  from 
the  table,  Keith,  as  he  afterwards  told  Norman,  felt  like  a 
squeezed  orange.  The  friendliest  man  to  him  was  Mr. 
Yorke,  whom  Keith  found  to  be  a  jovial,  sensible  little  man 
with  kindly  blue  eyes  and  a  humorous  mouth.  His  chief 
cross-examiner  was  a  Mr.  Kestrel,  a  narrow-faced,  parch 
ment-skinned  man  with  a  thin  white  moustache  that  looked 
as  if  it  had  led  a  starved  existence  on  his  bloodless  lip. 

"Those  people  down  there  are  opposed  to  progress,"  he 
said,  buttoning  up  his  pockets  in  a  way  he  had,  as  if  he 
were  afraid  of  having  them  picked.  "I  guess  the  Wicker- 
shams  have  found  that  out.  I  don't  see  any  money  in  it." 

"It  is  strange  that  Kestrel  doesn't  see  money  in  this," 
said  Mr.  Yorke,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye  ;  "for  he  usually 
sees  money  in  everything.  I  guess  there  were  other  rea 
sons  than  want  of  progress  for  the  Wickershams  not  paying 
dividends." 

A  few  days  later  Norman  informed  Keith  that  the  money 
was  nearly  all  subscribed ;  but  Keith  did  not  know  until 
afterwards  how  warmly  he  had  indorsed  him. 

"You  said  something  about  sheep  the  other  day ;  well,  a 
sheep  is  a  solitary  and  unsocial  animal  to  a  city- man  with 
money  to  invest.  My  grandfather's  man  used  to  tell  me  : 
1  Sheep  is  kind  of  gregarious,  Mr.  Norman.  Coax  the  first 
one  through  and  you  can't  keep  the  others  out.'  Even 
Kestrel  is  jumping  to  get  in." 


249 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
MKS.   LANCASTER 

KEITH  had  not  yet  met  Mrs.  Lancaster.  He  meant  to 
call  on  her  before  leaving  town ;  for  he  would  show 
her  that  he  was  successful,  and  also  that  he  had  recovered. 
Also  he  wanted  to  see  her,  and  in  his  heart  was  a  lurking 
hope  that  she  might  regret  having  lost  him.  A  word  that 
Mrs.  Wentworth  had  let  fall  the  first  evening  he  dined 
there  had  kept  him  from  calling  before. 

A  few  evenings  later  Keith  was  dining  with  the  Norman 
Wentworths,  and  after  dinner  Norman  said  : 

"By  the  way,  we  are  going  to  a  ball  to-night.  Won't 
you  come  along?  It  will  really  be  worth  seeing." 

Keith,  having  no  engagement,  was  about  to  accept,  but 
he  was  aware  that  Mrs.  Wentworth,  at  her  husband's  words, 
had  turned  and  given  him  a  quick  look  of  scrutiny,  that 
swept  him  from  the  top  of  his  head  to  the  toe  of  his  boot. 

He  had  had  that  swift  glance  of  inspection  sweep  him 
up  and  down  many  times  of  late,  in  business  offices.  The 
look,  however,  appeared  to  satisfy  his  hostess ;  for  after  a 
bare  pause  she  seconded  her  husband's  invitation. 

That  pause  had  given  Keith  time  to  reflect,  and  he  de 
clined  to  go.  But  Norman,  too,  had  seen  the  glance  his 
wife  had  given,  and  he  urged  his  acceptance  so  warmly  and 
with  such  real  sincerity  that  finally  Keith  yielded. 

"This  is  not  one  of  the  balls,"  said  Norman,  laughingly. 
"It  is  only  a  ball,  one  of  our  subscription  dances,  so  you 
need  have  no  scruples  about  going  along." 

Keith  looked  a  little  mystified. 

250 


MRS.  LANCASTER 

"Mrs.  Creamer's  balls  are  the  balls,  my  dear  fellow. 
There,  in  general,  only  the  rich  and  the  noble  enter— rich 
in  prospect  and  noble  in  title— 

"Norman,  how  can  you  talk  so  ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Weut- 
worth,  with  some  impatience.  "You  know  better  than 
that.  Mrs.  Creamer  has  always  been  particularly  kind  to 
us.  Why,  she  asks  me  to  receive  with  her  every  winter." 

But  Norman  was  in  a  bantering  mood.  "Am  not  I  rich 
and  you  noble?"  he  laughed.  "Do  you  suppose,  my  dear, 
that  Mrs.  Creamer  would  ask  you  to  receive  with  her  if 
we  lived  two  or  three  squares  off  Fifth  Avenue  ?  It  is  as 
hard  for  a  poor  man  to  enter  Mrs.  Creamer's  house  as  for  a 
camel  to  pass  through  the  needle's  eye.  Her  motions  are 
sidereal  and  her  orbit  is  as  regulated  as  that  of  a  planet." 

Mrs.  Wentworth  protested. 

"Why,  she  has  all  sorts  of  people  at  her  house—  ! " 

"Except  the  unsuccessful.  Even  planets  have  a  little 
eccentricity  of  orbit." 

An  hour  or  two  later  Keith  found  himself  in  such  a  scene 
of  radiance  as  he  had  never  witnessed  before  in  all  his  life. 
Though,  as  Norman  had  said,  it  was  not  one  of  the  great 
balls,  to  be  present  at  it  was  in  some  sort  a  proof  of  one's 
social  position  and  possibly  of  one's  pecuniary  condition. 

Keith  was  conscious  of  that  same  feeling  of  novelty  and 
exhilaration  that  had  come  over  him  when  he  first  arrived 
in  the  city.  It  came  upon  him  when  he  first  stepped  from 
the  cool  outer  air  into  the  warm  atmosphere  of  the  bril 
liantly  lighted  building  and  stood  among  the  young  men, 
all  perfectly  dressed  and  appointed,  and  almost  as  similar 
as  the  checks  they  were  receiving  from  the  busy  servants 
in  the  cloak-room.  The  feeling  grew  stronger  as  he  mounted 
the  wide  marble  stairway  to  the  broad  landing,  which  was 
a  bower  of  palms  and  flowers,  with  handsome  women  pass 
ing  in  and  out  like  birds  in  gorgeous  plumage,  and  gay 
voices  sounding  in  his  ears.  It  swept  over  him  like  a  flood 
when  he  entered  the  spacious  ball-room  and  gazed  upon 
the  dazzling  scene  before  him. 

251 


GOKDON   KEITH 

"This  is  Aladdin's  palace/7  he  declared  as  he  stood  look 
ing  across  the  large  ball-room.  "The  Arabian  Nights  have 
surely  come  again." 

Mrs.  Wentworth,  immediately  after  presenting  Keith  to 
one  or  two  ladies  who  were  receiving,  had  been  met  and 
borne  off  by  Ferdy  Wickersham,  and  was  in  the  throng 
at  the  far  end  of  the  great  apartment,  and  some  one  had 
stopped  Norman  on  the  stairway.  So  Keith  was  left  for  a 
moment  standing  alone  just  inside  the  door.  He  had  a 
sense  of  being  charmed.  Later,  he  tried  to  account  for  it. 
Was  it  the  sight  before  him  f  Even  such  perfect  harmony 
of  color  could  hardly  have  done  it.  It  must  be  the  daz 
zling  radiance  of  youth  that  almost  made  his  eyes  ache 
with  its  beauty.  Perhaps,  it  was  the  strain  of  the  band 
hidden  in  the  gallery  among  those  palms.  The  waltz  music 
that  floated  down  always  set  him  swinging  back  in  the 
land  of  memory.  He  stood  for  a  moment  quite  entranced. 
Then  he  was  suddenly  conscious  of  being  lonely.  In  all 
the  throng  before  him  he  could  not  see  one  soul  that  he 
knew.  His  friends  were  far  away. 

Suddenly  the  wheezy  strains  of  the  fiddles  and  the  blare 
of  the  horns  in  the  big  dining-room  of  the  old  Windsor 
back  in  the  mountains  sounded  in  his  ears,  and  the  motley 
but  gay  and  joyous  throng  that  tramped  and  capered  and 
swung  over  the  rough  boards,  setting  the  floor  to  swinging 
and  the  room  to  swaying,  swam  in  a  dim  mist  before  his 
eyes.  Girls  in  ribbons  so  gay  that  they  almost  made  the 
eyes  ache,  faces  flushed  with  the  excitement  and  joy  of  the 
dance ;  smiling  faces,  snowy  teeth,  dishevelled  hair,  tarla 
tan  dresses,  green  and  pink  and  white ;  ringing  laughter 
and  whoops  of  real  merriment— all  passed  before  his  senses. 

As  he  stood  looking  on  the  scene  of  splendor,  he  felt  lost, 
lonely,  and  for  a  moment  homesick.  Here  all  was  formal, 
stiff,  repressed ;  that  gayety  was  real,  that  merriment  was 
sincere.  With  all  their  crudeness,  those  people  in  that 
condition  were  all  human,  hearty,  strong,  real.  He  won 
dered  if  refinement  and  elegance  meant  necessarily  a  sup- 

252 


MKS.  LANCASTER 

pression  of  all  these.  There,  men  came  not  only  to  enjoy  but 
to  make  others  enjoy  as  well.  No  stranger  could  have  stood 
a  moment  alone  without  some  one  stepping  to  his  side  and 
drawing  him  into  a  friendly  talk.  This  mood  soon  changed. 

Still,  standing  alone  near  the  door  waiting  for  Norman  to 
appear,  Keith  found  entertainment  watching  the  groups, 
the  splendidly  dressed  women,  clustered  here  and  there  or 
moving  about  inspecting  or  speaking  to  each  other.  One 
figure  at  the  far  end  of  the  room  attracted  his  eye  again 
and  again.  She  was  standing  with  her  back  partly  toward 
him,  but  he  knew  that  she  was  a  pretty  woman  as  well  as 
a  handsome  one,  though  he  saw  her  face  only  in  profile, 
and  she  was  too  far  off  for  him  to  see  it  very  well.  Her  hair 
was  arranged  simply ;  her  head  was  set  beautifully  on  her 
shoulders.  She  was  dressed  in  black,  the  bodice  covered 
with  spangles  that  with  her  slightest  movement  shim 
mered  and  reflected  the  light  like  a  coat  of  flexible  mail. 
A  number  of  men  were  standing  about  her,  and  many 
women,  as  they  passed,  held  out  their  hands  to  her  in  the 
way  that  ladies  of  fashion  have.  Keith  saw  Mrs.  Went- 
worth  approach  her,  and  a  very  animated  conversation  ap 
peared  to  take  place  between  them,  and  the  lady  in  black 
turned  quickly  and  gazed  about  the  room ;  then  Mrs. 
Wentworth  started  to  move  away,  but  the  other  caught  and 
held  her,  asking  her  something  eagerly.  Mrs.  Wentworth 
must  have  refused  to  answer,  for  she  followed  her  a  few 
steps ;  but  Mrs.  Wentworth  simply  waved  her  hand  to  her 
and  swept  away  with  her  escort,  laughing  back  at  her 
over  her  shoulder. 

Keith  made  his  way  around  the  room  toward  Mrs.  Went 
worth.  There  was  something  about  the  young  lady  in 
black  which  reminded  him  of  a  girl  he  had  once  seen 
standing  straight  and  defiant,  yet  very  charming,  in  a 
woodland  path  under  arching  pine-boughs.  Just  then, 
however,  a  waltz  struck  up  and  Mrs.  Wentworth  began  to 
dance,  so  Keith  stood  leaning  against  the  wall.  Presently 
a  member  of  a  group  of  young  men  near  Keith  said  : 

253 


GORDON   KEITH 

"The  Lancaster  looks  well  to-night." 

"She  does.     The  old  man's  at  home,  Ferdy's  on  deck." 

"Ferdy  be  dashed  !     Besides,  where  is  Mrs.  Went—  ?  " 

"Don't  lay  any  money  on  that." 

"She's  all  right.  Try  to  say  anything  to  her  and  you'll 
find  out." 

The  others  laughed,  and  one  of  them  asked  : 

"Been  trying  yourself,  Stirling?  " 

"No.     I  know  better,  Minturn." 

"Why  doesn't  she  shake  Ferdy  then?"  demanded  the 
other.  "He's  always  hanging  around  when  he  isn't  around 
the  other." 

"Oh,  they  have  been  friends  all  their  lives.  She  is  not 
going  to  give  up  a  friend,  especially  when  others  are  get 
ting  down  on  him.  Can't  you  allow  anything  to  friend 
ship?" 

"Ferdy's  friendship  is  pretty  expensive,"  said  his  friend, 
sententiously. 

Keith  took  a  glance  at  the  speakers  to  see  if  he  could  by 
following  their  gaze  place  Mrs.  Lancaster.  The  one  who 
defended  the  lady  was  a  jolly -looking  man  with  a  merry 
eye  and  a  humorous  mouth.  The  other  two  were  as  much 
alike  as  their  neckties,  their  collars,  their  shirt-fronts,  their 
dress-suits,  or  their  shoes,  in  which  none  but  a  tailor  could 
have  discovered  the  least  point  of  difference.  Their  cheeks 
were  smooth,  their  chins  were  round,  their  hair  as  per 
fectly  parted  and  brushed  as  a  barber's.  Keith  had  an  im 
pression  that  he  had  seen  them  just  before  on  the  other 
side  of  the  room,  talking  to  the  lady  in  black ;  but  as  he 
looked  across,  he  saw  the  other  young  men  still  there,  and 
there  were  yet  others  elsewhere.  At  the  first  glance  they 
nearly  all  looked  alike.  Just  then  he  became  conscious 
that  a  couple  had  stopped  close  beside  him.  He  glanced  at 
them  ;  the  lady  was  the  same  to  whom  he  had  seen  Mrs. 
Wentworth  speaking  at  the  other  end  of  the  room.  Her 
face  was  turned  away,  and  all  he  saw  was  an  almost  perfect 
figure  with  shoulders  that  looked  dazzling  in  contrast  with 

254 


"Why,  Mr.  Keith!"  she  exclaimed. 


MKS.  LANCASTEB 

her  shimmering  black  gown.  A  single  red  rose  was  stuck 
in  her  hair.  He  was  waiting  to  get  a  look  at  her  face, 
when  she  turned  toward  him. 

"Why,  Mr.  Keith!"  she  exclaimed,  her  blue  eyes  open 
wide  with  surprise.  She  held  out  her  hand.  "I  don't  be 
lieve  you  know  me  !  " 

"Then  you  must  shut  your  eyes,"  said  Keith,  smiling  his 
pleasure. 

"I  don't  believe  I  should  have  known  you?  Yes,  I 
should  ;  I  should  have  known  you  anywhere." 

"Perhaps,  I  have  not  changed  so  much,"  smiled  Keith. 

She  gave  him  just  the  ghost  of  a  glance  out  of  her  blue 
eyes. 

"I  don't  know.  Have  you  been  carrying  any  sacks  of 
salt  lately?"  She  assumed  a  lighter  air. 

"No  ;  but  heavier  burdens  still." 

"Are  you  married?  " 

Keith  laughed. 

"No  ;  not  so  heavy  as  that— yet." 

"So  heavy  as  that  yet!    Oh,  you  are  engaged?" 

"No ;  not  engaged  either— except  engaged  in  trying  to 
make  a  lot  of  people  who  think  they  know  everything 
understand  that  there  are  a  few  things  that  they  don't 
know." 

"That  is  a  difficult  task,"  she  said,  shaking  her  head,  "if 
you  try  it  in  New  York." 

"  'John  P.  Robinson,  he 

Says  they  don't  know  everything  down  in  Judee,' ' 

put  in  the  stout  young  man  who  had  been  standing  by 
waiting  to  speak  to  her. 

"But  this  isn't  Judee  yet,"  she  laughed,  "for  I  assure  you 
we  do  know  everything  here,  Mr.  Keith."  She  held  out 
her  hand  to  the  gentleman  who  had  spoken,  and  after 
greeting  him  introduced  him  to  Keith  as  "Mr.  Stirling." 

"You  ought  to  like  each  other,"  she  said  cordially. 

255 


GORDON   KEITH 

Keith  professed  his  readiness  to  do  so. 

"I  don't  know  about  that/'  said  Stirling,  jovially.  "  You 
are  too  friendly  to  him." 

"What  are  you  doing?  Where  are  you  staying?  How 
long  are  you  going  to  be  in  town?"  demanded  Mrs.  Lan 
caster,  turning  to  Keith. 

"Mining.— At  the  Brunswick.— Only  a  day  or  two/'  said 
Keith,  laughing. 

"Mining  ?     Gold-mining  f  " 

"No  5  not  yet." 

"Where?" 

"Down  South  at  a  place  called  New  Leeds.  It's  near 
the  place  where  I  used  to  teach.  It's  a  great  city.  Why, 
we  think  New  York  is  jealous  of  us." 

"Oh,  I  know  about  that.  A  friend  of  mine  put  a  little 
money  down  there  for  me.  You  know  him?  Ferdy 
Wickersham  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  know  him." 

"Most  of  us  know  him,"  observed  Mr.  Stirling,  turning 
his  eyes  on  Keith. 

"Of  course,  you  must  know  him.  Are  you  in  with  him? 
He  tells  me  that  they  own  pretty  much  everything  that  is 
good  in  that  region.  They  are  about  to  open  a  new  mine 
that  is  to  exceed  anything  ever  known.  Ferdy  tells  me  I 
am  good  for  I  don't  know  how  much.  The  stock  is  to  be 
put  on  the  exchange  in  a  little  while,  and  I  got  in  on  the 
ground-floor.  That's  what  they  call  it— the  lowest  floor  of 
all,  you  know?" 

"Yes ;  some  people  call  it  the  ground-floor,"  said  Keith, 
wishing  to  change  the  subject. 

"You  know  there  may  be  a  cellar  under  a  ground-floor," 
observed  Mr.  Stirling,  demurely. 

Keith  looked  at  him,  and  their  eyes  met. 

Fortunately,  perhaps,  for  Keith,  some  one  came  up  just 
then  and  claimed  a  dance  with  Mrs.  Lancaster.  She  moved 
away,  and  then  turned  back. 

"I  shall  see  you  again?" 

256 


MRS.  LANCASTER 

"Yes.     Why,  I  hope  so— certainly." 

She  stopped  and  looked  at  him. 

"When  are  you  going  away?" 

"Why,  I  don't  exactly  know.  Very  soon.  Perhaps,  in 
a  day  or  two." 

"Well,  won't  you  come  to  see  us?  Here,  I  will  give  you 
my  address.  Have  you  a  card?"  She  took  the  pencil  he 
offered  her  and  wrote  her  number  on  it.  "Come  some 
afternoon— about  six ;  Mr.  Lancaster  is  always  in  then," 
she  said  sedately.  "I  am  sure  you  will  like  each  other." 

Keith  bowed. 

She  floated  off  smiling.  What  she  had  said  to  Mrs.  Went- 
worth  occurred  to  her. 

"Yes  j  he  looks  like  a  man."  She  became  conscious  that 
her  companion  was  asking  a  question. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you ?  "  he  said.  "I  have  asked 
you  three  times  who  that  man  was,  and  you  have  not  said 
a  word." 

"Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon.  Mr.  Keith,  an  old  friend  of 
mine,"  she  said,  and  changed  the  subject. 

As  to  her  old  friend,  he  was  watching  her  as  she  danced, 
winding  in  and  out  among  the  intervening  couples.  He 
wondered  that  he  could  ever  have  thought  that  a  creature 
like  that  could  care  for  him  and  share  his  hard  life.  He 
might  as  soon  have  expected  a  bird-of-paradise  to  live  by 
choice  in  a  coal-bunker. 

He  strolled  about,  looking  at  the  handsome  women,  and 
presently  found  himself  in  the  conservatory.  Turning  a 
clump  of  palms,  he  came  on  Mrs.  Wentworth  and  Mr. 
Wickersham  sitting  together  talking  earnestly.  Keith  was 
about  to  go  up  and  speak  to  Mrs.  Wentworth,  but  her  escort 
said  something  under  his  breath  to  her,  and  she  looked 
away.  So  Keith  passed  on. 

A  little  later,  Keith  went  over  to  where  Mrs.  Lancaster 
stood.  Several  men  were  about  her,  and  just  after  Keith 
joined  her,  another  man  walked  up,  if  any  movement  so 
lazy  and  sauntering  could  be  termed  walking. 

257 


GORDON   KEITH 

"I  have  been  wondering  why  I  did  not  see  you/'  he 
drawled  as  he  came  up. 

Keith  recognized  the  voice  of  Ferdy  Wickersham.  He 
turned  and  faced  him ;  but  if  Mr.  Wickersham  was  aware 
of  his  presence,  he  gave  no  sign  of  it.  His  dark  eyes  were 
on  Mrs.  Lancaster.  She  turned  to  him. 

"Perhaps,  Ferdinand,  it  was  because  you  did  not  use  your 
eyes.  That  is  not  ordinarily  a  fault  of  yours." 

"I  never  think  of  my  eyes  when  yours  are  present,"  said 
he,  lazily. 

"Oh,  don't  you?"  laughed  Mrs.  Lancaster.  "What  were 
you  doing  a  little  while  ago  in  the  conservatory — with —  1 " 

"Nothing-  I  have  not  been  in  the  conservatory  this 
evening.  You  have  paid  some  one  else  a  compliment." 

"Tell  that  to  some  one  who  does  not  use  her  eyes,"  said 
Mrs.  Lancaster,  mockingly. 

"There  are  occasions  when  you  must  disbelieve  the  sight 
of  your  eyes."  He  was  looking  her  steadily  in  the  face, 
and  Keith  saw  her  expression  change.  She  recovered 
herself. 

"Last  time  I  saw  you,  you  vowed  you  had  eyes  for  none 
but  me,  you  may  remember?"  she  said  lightly. 

"ISTo.  Did  I?  Life  is  too  awfully  short  to  remember. 
But  it  is  true.  It  is  the  present  in  which  I  find  my  pleasure." 

Up  to  this  time  neither  Mrs.  Lancaster  nor  Mr.  Wicker 
sham  had  taken  any  notice  of  Keith,  who  stood  a  little  to 
one  side,  waiting,  with  his  eyes  resting  on  the  other  young 
man's  face.  Mrs.  Lancaster  now  turned. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Keith."  She  now  turned  back  to  Mr.  Wicker 
sham.  "You  know  Mr.  Keith?  " 

Keith  was  about  to  step  forward  to  greet  his  old  acquain 
tance  5  but  Wickersham  barely  nodded. 

"Ah,  how  do  you  do?  Yes,  I  know  Mr.  Keith.— If  I  can 
take  care  of  the  present,  I  let  the  past  and  the  future  take 
care  of  themselves,"  he  continued  to  Mrs.  Lancaster. 
"Come  and  have  a  turn.  That  will  make  the  present 
worth  all  of  the  past." 

258 


MRS.  LANCASTER 

"Ferdy,  you  are  discreet,"  said  one  of  the  other  men, 
with  a  laugh. 

"My  dear  fellow,"  said  the  young  man,  turning,  "I  assure 
you,  you  don't  know  half  my  virtues." 

"What  are  your  virtues,  Ferdy?" 

"One  is  not  interfering  with  others."  He  turned  back  to 
Mrs.  Lancaster.  "Come,  have  a  turn."  He  took  one  of  his 
hands  from  his  pocket  and  held  it  out. 

"I  am  engaged,"  said  Mrs.  Lancaster. 

"Oh,  that  makes  no  difference.  You  are  always  engaged ; 
come,"  he  said. 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  It  makes  a  difference  in  this  case," 
said  Keith,  coming  forward.  "I  believe  this  is  my  turn, 
Mrs.  Lancaster?" 

Wickersham's  glance  swept  across,  but  did  not  rest  on 
him,  though  it  was  enough  for  Keith  to  meet  it  for  a 
second,  and,  without  looking,  the  young  man  turned  lazily 
away. 

"Shall  we  find  a  seat?"  Mrs.  Lancaster  asked  as  she  took 
Keith's  arm. 

"Delighted,  unless  you  prefer  to  dance." 

"I  did  not  know  that  dancing  was  one  of  your  accom 
plishments,"  she  said  as  they  strolled  along. 

"Maybe,  I  have  acquired  several  accomplishments  that 
you  do  not  know  of.  It  has  been  a  long  time  since  you  knew 
me,"  he  answered  lightly.  As  they  turned,  his  eyes  fell  on 
Wickersham.  He  was  standing  where  they  had  left  him, 
his  eyes  fastened  on  them  malevolently.  As  Keith  looked  he 
started  and  turned  away.  Mrs.  Lancaster  had  also  seen  him. 

"What  is  there  between  you  and  Ferdy ?  "  she  asked. 

"Nothing." 

"There  must  be.     Did  you  ever  have  a  row  with  him? " 

"Yes ;  but  that  was  long  ago." 

"I  don't  know.  He  has  a  good  memory.  He  doesn't  like 
you."  She  spoke  reflectively. 

"Doesn't  he?"  laughed  Keith.  "Well,  I  must  try  and 
sustain  it  as  best  I  can." 

259 


GORDON  KEITH 

"And  you  don't  like  him?  Few  men  like  him.  I  won 
der  why  that  is?" 

"And  many  women?"  questioned  Keith,  as  for  a  mo 
ment  he  recalled  Mrs.  Wentworth's  face  when  he  spoke  of 
him. 

"Some  women,"  she  corrected,  with  a  quick  glance  at 
him.  She  reflected,  and  then  went  on  :  "I  think  it  is  partly 
because  he  is  so  bold  and  partly  that  he  never  appears  to 
know  any  one  else.  It  is  the  most  insidious  flattery  in  the 
world.  I  like  him  because  I  have  known  him  all  my  life. 
I  know  him  perfectly." 

"Yes?"     Keith  spoke  politely. 

She  read  his  thought.  "You  wonder  if  I  really  know 
him?  Yes,  I  do.  But,  somehow,  I  cling  to  those  I  knew 
in  my  girlhood.  You  don't  believe  that,  but  I  do."  She 
glanced  at  him  and  then  looked  away. 

"Yes,  I  do  believe  it.  Then  let's  be  friends— old 
friends,"  said  Keith.  He  held  out  his  hand,  and  when  she 
took  it  grasped  hers  firmly. 

"Who  is  here  with  you  to-night?"  he  asked. 

"No  one.     Mr.  Lancaster  does  not  care  for  balls." 

"Won't  you  give  me  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  home?" 

She  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  then  said  : 

"I  will  drop  you  at  your  hotel.  It  is  right  on  my  way 
home." 

Just  then  some  one  came  up  and  joined  the  group. 

"Ah,  my  dear  Mrs.  Lancaster  !  How  well  you  are  look 
ing  this  evening ! " 

The  full  voice,  no  less  than  the  words,  sounded  familiar  to 
Keith,  and  turning,  he  recognized  the  young  clergyman 
whom  he  had  met  at  Mrs.  Wentworth's  when  he  passed 
through  New  York  some  years  before.  The  years  had 
plainly  used  Mr.  Simmon  well.  He  was  dressed  in  an 
evening  suit  with  a  clerical  waistcoat  which  showed  that 
his  plump  frame  had  taken  on  an  extra  layer,  and  a  double 
chin  was  beginning  to  rest  on  his  collar. 

Mrs.  Lancaster  smiled  as  she  returned  his  greeting. 

260 


MKS.  LANCASTER 

"You  are  my  stand-by,  Mr.  Rimmon.  I  always  know 
that,  no  matter  what  others  may  say  of  me,  I  shall  be  sure 
of  at  least  one  compliment  before  the  evening  is  over  if  you 
are  present." 

"That  is  because  you  always  deserve  it."  He  put  his 
head  on  one  side  like  an  aldermanic  robin.  "Ah,  if  you 
knew  how  many  compliments  I  do  pay  you  which  you 
never  hear !  My  entire  life  is  a  compliment  to  you,"  de 
clared  Mr.  Rimmon. 

"Not  your  entire  life,  Mr.  Rimmon.  You  are  like  some 
other  men.  You  confound  me  with  some  one  else ;  for  I 
am  sure  I  heard  you  saying  the  same  thing  five  minutes 
ago  to  Louise  Went  worth." 

"Impossible.  Then  I  must  have  confounded  her  with 
you,"  sighed  Mr.  Rimmon,  with  such  a  look  at  Mrs.  Lan 
caster  out  of  his  languishing  eyes  that  she  gave  him  a 
laughing  tap  with  her  fan. 

"Go  and  practise  that  on  a  debutante.  I  am  an  old 
married  woman,  remember." 

"Ah,  me  ! "  sighed  the  gentleman.  "  '  Marriage  and  Death 
and  Division  make  barren  our  lives.' " 

"Where  does  that  come  from!"  asked  Mrs.  Lancaster. 

"Ah !  from— ah— "  began  Mr.  Rimmon,  then  catching 
Keith's  eyes  resting  on  him  with  an  amused  look  in  them, 
he  turned  red. 

She  addressed  Keith.  "Mr.  Keith,  you  quoted  that  to 
me  once  ;  where  does  it  come  from  ?  From  the  Bible  ?  " 

"No." 

"I  read  it  in  the  newspaper  and  was  so  struck  by  it  that 
I  remembered  it,"  said  Mr.  Rimmon. 

"I  read  it  in  'Laus  Veneris,'  "  said  Keith,  dryly,  with  his 
eyes  on  the  other's  face.  It  pleased  him  to  see  it  redden. 

Keith,  as  he  passed  through  the  rooms,  caught  sight  of 
an  old  lady  over  in  a  corner.  He  could  scarcely  believe 
his  senses ;  it  was  Miss  Abigail.  She  was  sitting  back 
against  the  wall,  watching  the  crowd  with  eyes  as  sharp  as 
needles.  Sometimes  her  thin  lips  twitched,  and  her  bright 

261 


GOEDON   KEITH 

eyes  snapped  with  inward  amusement.  Keith  made  his 
way  over  to  her.  She  was  so  much  engaged  that  he  stood 
beside  her  a  moment  without  her  seeing  him.  Then  she 
turned  and  glanced  at  him. 

"  'A  chiel's  amang  ye  takin'  notes/'7  he  said,  laughing 
and  holding  out  his  hand. 

"  'An',  faith!  she'll  prent  ?em,' "  she  answered,  with  a 
nod.  "How  are  you?  I  am  glad  to  see  you.  I  was  just 
wishing  I  had  somebody  to  enjoy  this  with  me,  but  not  a 
man.  I  ought  to  be  gone ;  and  so  ought  you,  young  man. 
I  started,  but  I  thought  if  I  could  get  in  a  corner  by 
myself  where  there  were  no  men  I  might  stay  a  little  while 
and  look  at  it ;  for  I  certainly  never  saw  anything  like  this 
before,  and  I  don't  think  I  ever  shall  again.  I  certainly 
do  not  think  you  ought  to  see  it." 

Keith  laughed,  and  she  continued  : 

"I  knew  things  had  changed  since  I  was  a  girl ;  but  I 
didn't  know  it  was  as  bad  as  this.  Why,  I  don't  think  it 
ought  to  be  allowed." 

"What?  "asked  Keith. 

"This."  She  waved  her  hand  to  include  the  dancing 
throng  before  them.  "They  tell  me  all  those  women  dan 
cing  around  there  are  married." 

"I  believe  many  of  them  are." 

"Why  don't  those  young  women  have  partners?  " 

"Why,  some  of  them  do.  I  suppose  the  others  are  not 
attractive  enough,  or  something." 

"Especially  something,"  said  the  old  lady.  "Where  are 
their  husbands?" 

"Why,  some  of  them  are  at  home,  and  some  are  here." 

"Where?"  The  old  lady  turned  her  eyes  on  a  couple 
that  sailed  by  her,  the  man  talking  very  earnestly  to  his 
companion,  who  was  listening  breathlessly.  "Is  that  her 
husband?" 

"Well,  no  ;  that  is  not,  I  believe." 

"No  ;  I'll  be  bound  it  is  not.  You  never  saw  a  married 
man  talking  to  his  wife  in  public  in  that  way— unless  they 

262 


MKS.  LANCASTER 

were  talking  about  the  last  month's  bills.    Why,  it  is  per 
fectly  brazen." 

Keith  laughed. 

"Where  is  her  husband?"  she  demanded,  as  Mrs.  Went- 
worth  floated  by,  a  vision  of  brocaded  satin  and  lace  and 
white  shoulders,  supported  by  Ferdy  Wickersham,  who 
was  talking  earnestly  and  looking  down  into  her  eyes  lan- 
guishingly. 

"Oh,  her  husband  is  here." 

"Well,  he  had  better  take  her  home  to  her  little  chil 
dren.  If  ever  I  saw  a  face  that  I  distrusted  it  is  that  man's." 

"Why,  that  is  Ferdy  Wickersham.  He  is  one  of  the 
leaders  of  society.  He  is  considered  quite  an  Adonis,"  ob 
served  Keith. 

"And  I  don't  think  Adonis  was  a  very  proper  person  for  a 
young  woman  with  children  to  be  dancing  with  in  attire  in 
which  only  her  husband  should  see  her."  She  shut  her  lips 
grimly.  "I  know  him,"  she  added.  "I  know  all  about 
them  for  three  generations.  One  of  the  misfortunes  of  age 
is  that  when  a  person  gets  as  old  as  I  am  she  knows  so  much 
evil  about  people.  I  knew  that  young  man's  grandfather 
when  he  was  a  worthy  mechanic.  His  wife  was  an  uppish 
hussy  who  thought  herself  better  than  her  husband,  and 
their  daughter  was  a  pretty  girl  with  black  eyes  and  rosy 
cheeks.  They  sent  her  off  to  school,  and  after  the  first 
year  or  two  she  never  came  back.  She  had  got  above 
them.  Her  father  told  me  as  much.  The  old  man  cried 
about  it.  He  said  his  wife  thought  it  was  all  right  ;  that  his 
girl  had  married  a  smart  young  fellow  who  was  a  clerk  in 
a  bank  ;  but  that  if  he  had  a  hundred  other  children  he'd 
never  teach  them  any  more  than  to  read,  write,  and  figure. 
And  to  think  that  her  son  should  be  the  Adonis  dancing 
with  my  cousin  Everett  Wentworth's  daughter-in-law ! 
Why,  my  Aunt  Wentworth  would  rise  from  her  grave  if  she 
knew  it ! " 

"Well,  times  have  changed,"  said  Keith,  laughing. 
"You  see  they  are  as  good  as  anybody  now." 

263 


GOKDON   KEITH 

"Not  as  good  as  anybody— you  mean  as  rich  as  anybody." 

"That  amounts  to  about  the  same  thing  here,  doesn't  it?  " 

"I  believe  it  does,  here,"  said  the  old  lady,  with  a  sniff. 
"Well,"  she  said  after  a  pause,  "I  think  I  will  go  back  and 
tell  Matilda  what  I  have  seen.  And  if  you  are  wise  you 
will  come  with  me,  too.  This  is  no  place  for  plain,  coun 
try-bred  people  like  you  and  me." 

Keith,  laughing,  said  he  had  an  engagement,  but  he  would 
like  to  have  the  privilege  of  taking  her  home,  and  then  he 
could  return. 

"With  a  married  woman,  I  suppose?  Yes,  I  will  be 
bound  it  is,"  she  added  as  Keith  nodded.  "You  see  the 
danger  of  evil  association.  I  shall  write  to  your  father  and 
tell  him  that  the  sooner  he  gets  you  out  of  New  York  the 
better  it  will  be  for  your  morals  and  your  manners.  For 
you  are  the  only  man,  except  Norman,  who  has  been  so 
provincial  as  to  take  notice  of  an  unknown  old  woman." 

So  she  went  chatting  merrily  down  the  stairway  to  her 
carriage,  making  her  observations  on  whatever  she  saw 
with  the  freshness  of  a  girl. 

"Do  you  think  Norman  is  happy?"  she  suddenly  asked 
Keith. 

"Why— yes  j  don't  you  think  so?  He  has  everything  on 
earth  to  make  him  happy,"  said  Keith,  with  some  surprise. 
But  even  at  the  moment  it  flitted  across  his  mind  that 
there  was  something  which  he  had  felt  rather  than  observed 
in  Mrs.  Wentworth's  attitude  toward  her  husband. 

"Except  that  he  has  married  a  fool,"  said  the  old  lady? 
briefly.  "Don't  you  marry  a  fool,  you  hear?" 

"I  believe  she  is  devoted  to  Norman  and  to  her  children," 
Keith  began,  but  Miss  Abigail  interrupted  him. 

"And  why  shouldn't  she  be?  Isn't  she  his  wife?  She 
gives  him,  perhaps,  what  is  left  over  after  her  devotion  to 
herself,  her  house,  her  frocks,  her  jewels,  and— Adonis." 

"Oh,  I  don't  believe  she  cares  for  him,"  declared  Keith. 
"It  is  impossible." 

"I  don't  believe  she  does  either,  but  she  cares  for  herself, 

264 


MKS.   LANCASTER 

and  he  flatters  her.  The  idea  of  a  Norman  -  Wentworth's  wife 
being  flattered  by  the  attention  of  a  tinker's  grandson  !  " 

When  the  ball  broke  up  and  Mrs.  Lancaster's  carriage 
was  called,  several  men  escorted  her  to  it.  Wickersham, 
who  was  trying  to  recover  ground  which  something  told 
him  he  had  lost,  followed  her  down  the  stairway  with  one 
or  two  other  men,  and  after  she  had  entered  the  carriage 
stood  leaning  in  at  the  door  while  he  made  his  adieus  and 
peace  at  the  same  moment. 

"You  were  not  always  so  cruel  to  me,"  he  said  in  a  low 
tone. 

Mrs.  Lancaster  laughed  genuinely. 

"I  was  never  cruel  to  you,  Ferdy ;  you  mistake  leniency 
for  harshness." 

"No  one  else  would  say  that  to  me." 

"So  much  the  more  pity.  You  would  be  a  better  man  if 
you  had  the  truth  told  you  oftener." 

"When  did  you  become  such  an  advocate  of  Truth?  Is 
it  this  man?" 

"Whatman?" 

"Keith.  If  it  is,  I  want  to  tell  you  that  he  is  not  what 
he  pretends." 

A  change  came  over  Mrs.  Lancaster's  face. 

"He  is  a  gentleman,"  she  said  coldly. 

"Oh,  is  he?     He  was  a  stage-driver." 

Mrs.  Lancaster  drew  herself  up. 

"If  he  was—"  she  began.  But  she  stopped  suddenly, 
glanced  beyond  Wickersham,  and  moved  over  to  the  further 
side  of  the  carriage. 

Just  then  a  hand  was  laid  on  Wickersham's  arm,  and  a 
voice  behind  him  said  : 

"I  beg  your  pardon." 

Wickersham  knew  the  voice,  and  without  looking  around 
stood  aside  for  the  speaker  to  make  his  adieus.  Keith 
stepped  into  the  carriage  and  pulled  to  the  door  before  the 
footman  could  close  it. 

At  the  sound  the  impatient  horses  started  off,  leaving 

265 


GORDON   KEITH 

three  men  standing  in  the  street  looking  very  blank. 
Stirling  was  the  first  to  speak ;  he  turned  to  the  others  in 
amazement. 

"Who  is  Keith?"  he  demanded. 

"Oh,  a  fellow  from  the  Sonth  somewhere." 

"Well,  Keith  knows  his  business ! "  said  Mr.  Stirling, 
with  a  nod  of  genuine  admiration. 

Wickersham  uttered  an  imprecation  and  turned  back 
into  the  house. 

Next  day  Mr.  Stirling  caught  Wickersham  in  a  group  of 
young  men  at  the  club,  and  told  them  the  story. 

"Look  out  for  Keith,"  he  said.     "He  gave  me  a  lesson." 

Wickersham  growled  an  inaudible  reply. 

"Who  was  the  lady?  Wickersham  tries  to  capture  so 
many  prizes,  what  you  say  gives  us  no  light,"  said  Mr. 
Minturn,  one  of  the  men. 

"Oh,  no.  I'll  only  tell  you  it's  not  the  one  you  think," 
said  the  jolly  bachelor.  "But  I  am  going  to  take  lessons 
of  that  man  Keith.  These  countrymen  surprise  me  some 
times." 

"He  was  a  d — d  stage-driver,"  said  Wickersham. 

"Then  you  had  better  take  lessons  from  him,  Ferdy," 
said  Stirling.  "He  drives  well.  He's  a  veteran." 

When  Keith  reached  his  room  he  lit  a  cigar  and  flung 
himself  into  a  chair.  Somehow,  the  evening  had  not  left 
a  pleasant  impression  on  his  mind.  Was  this  the  Alice 
Yorke  he  had  worshipped,  revered  f  Was  this  the  woman 
whom  he  had  canonized  throughout  these  years'?  Why 
was  she  carrying  on  an  affair  with  Ferdy  Wickersham  ? 
What  did  he  mean  by  those  last  words  at  the  carriage? 
She  said  she  knew  him.  Then  she  must  know  what  his 
reputation  was.  Now  and  then  it  came  to  Keith  that  it 
was  nothing  to  him.  Mrs.  Lancaster  was  married,  and  her 
affairs  could  not  concern  him.  But  they  did  concern  him. 
They  had  agreed  to  be  old  friends— old  friends.  He  would 
be  a  true  friend  to  her. 

He  rose  and  threw  away  his  half -smoked  cigar. 

266 


MKS.    LANCASTER 

Keith  called  on  Mrs.  Lancaster  just  before  he  left  for  the 
South.  Though  he  had  no  such  motive  when  he  put  off 
his  visit,  he  could  not  have  done  a  wiser  thing.  It  was  a 
novel  experience  for  her  to  invite  a  man  to  call  on  her  and 
not  have  him  jump  at  the  proposal,  appear  promptly  next 
day,  frock-coat,  kid  gloves,  smooth  flattery,  and  all ;  and 
when  Keith  had  not  appeared  on  the  third  day  after  the 
ball,  it  set  her  to  thinking.  She  imagined  at  first  that  he 
must  have  been  called  out  of  town,  but  Mrs.  Norman, 
whom  she  met,  dispelled  this  idea.  Keith  had  dined  with 
them  informally  the  evening  before. 

"He  appeared  to  be  in  high  spirits,"  added  the  lady. 
"His  scheme  has  succeeded,  and  he  is  about  to  go  South. 
Norman  took  it  up  and  put  it  through  for  him.'7 

"I  know  it,"  said  Mrs.  Lancaster,  demurely. 

Mrs.  Wentworth's  form  stiffened  slightly ;  but  her  man 
ner  soon  became  gracious  again.  "Ferdy  says  there  is 
nothing  in  it." 

Could  he  be  offended,  or  afraid— of  himself1?  reflected 
Mrs.  Lancaster.  Mrs.  Wentworth's  next  observation  dis 
posed  of  this  theory  also.  "You  ought  to  hear  him  talk  of 
you.  By  the  way,  I  have  found  out  who  that  ghost  was." 

Mrs.  Lancaster  threw  a  mask  over  her  face. 

"He  says  you  have  more  than  fulfilled  the  promise  of 
your  girlhood  :  that  you  are  the  handsomest  woman  he  has 
seen  in  New  York,  my  dear,"  pursued  the  other,  look 
ing  down  at  her  own  shapely  figure.  "Of  course,  I  do  not 
agree  with  him,  quite,"  she  laughed.  "But,  then,  people 
will  differ." 

"Louise  Wentworth,  vanity  is  a  deadly  sin,"  said  the 
other,  smiling,  "and  we  are  told  in  the  Commandments— 
I  forget  which  one— to  envy  nothing  of  our  neighbor's." 

"He  said  he  wanted  to  go  to  see  you  ;  that  you  had  kindly 
invited  him,  and  he  wished  very  much  to  meet  Mr.  Lan 
caster,"  said  Mrs.  Wentworth,  blandly. 

"Yes,  I  am  sure  they  will  like  each  other,"  said  Mrs. 
Lancaster,  with  dignity.  "Mamma  also  is  very  anxious  to 

267 


GOKDON   KEITH 

see  him.  She  used  to  know  him  when— when  he  was  a 
boy,  and  liked  him  very  much,  too,  though  she  would  not 
acknowledge  it  to  me  then."  She  laughed  softly  at  some 
recollection. 

"He  spoke  of  your  mother  most  pleasantly,"  declared 
Mrs.  "Wentworth,  not  without  Mrs.  Lancaster  noticing  that 
she  was  claiming  to  stand  as  Keith's  friend. 

"Well,  I  shall  not  be  at  home  to-morrow,"  she  began. 
"I  have  promised  to  go  out  to-morrow  afternoon." 

"Oh,  sha'n't  you  ?  Why,  what  a  pity  !  because  he  said  he 
was  going  to  pay  his  calls  to-morrow,  as  he  expected  to  leave 
to-morrow  night.  I  think  he  would  be  very  sorry  not  to 
see  you." 

"Oh,  well,  then,  I  will  stay  in.  My  other  engagement  is 
of  no  consequence." 

Her  friend  looked  benign. 

Recollecting  Mrs.  Wentworth's  expression,  Mrs.  Lancaster 
determined  that  she  would  not  be  at  home  the  following 
afternoon.  She  would  show  Mrs.  Wentworth  that  she 
could  not  gauge  her  so  easily  as  she  fancied.  But  at  the 
last  moment,  after  putting  on  her  hat,  she  changed  her 
mind.  She  remained  in,  and  ended  by  inviting  Keith  to 
dinner  that  evening,  an  invitation  which  was  so  graciously 
seconded  by  Mr.  Lancaster  that  Keith,  finding  that  he 
could  take  a  later  train,  accepted.  Mrs.  Yorke  was  at 
the  dinner,  too,  and  how  gracious  she  was  to  Keith !  She 
"could  scarcely  believe  he  was  the  same  man  she  had 
known  a  few  years  before."  She  "had  heard  a  great  deal 
of  him,  and  had  come  around  to  dinner  on  purpose  to  meet 
him."  This  was  true. 

"And  you  have  done  so  well,  too,  I  hear.  Your  friends 
are  very  pleased  to  know  of  your  success,"  she  said  gra 
ciously. 

Keith  smilingly  admitted  that  he  had  had,  perhaps, 
better  fortune  than  he  deserved ;  but  this  Mrs.  Yorke 
amiably  would  by  no  means  allow. 

"Mrs.  Wentworth— not  Louise— I  mean  the  elder  Mrs. 

268 


MRS.  LANCASTER 

Wentworth— was  speaking  of  you.  You  and  Norman  were 
great  friends  when  you  were  boys,  she  tells  me.  They  were 
great  friends  of  ours,  you  know,  long  before  we  met  you." 

He  wondered  how  much  the  Wentworths'  indorsement 
counted  for  in  securing  Mrs.  Yorke's  invitation.  For  a 
good  deal,  he  knew ;  but  as  much  credit  as  he  gave  it  he 
was  within  the  mark. 

It  was  only  her  environment.  She  could  no  more  escape 
from  that  than  if  she  were  in  prison.  She  gauged  every 
one  by  what  others  thought,  and  she  possessed  no  other 
gauge.  Yet  there  was  a  certain  friendliness,  too,  in  Mrs. 
Yorke.  The  good  lady  had  softened  with  the  years,  and  at 
heart  she  had  always  liked  Keith. 

Most  of  her  conversation  was  of  her  friends  and  their 
position.  Alice  was  thinking  of  going  abroad  soon  to  visit 
some  friends  on  the  other  side,  "of  a  very  distinguished 
family,"  she  told  Keith. 

When  Keith  left  the  Lancaster  house  that  night  Alice 
Lancaster  knew  that  he  had  wholly  recovered. 


269 


CHAPTEK    XIX 
WICKEKSHAM   AND    PHRONY 

KEITH  returned  home  and  soon  found  himself  a  much 
bigger  man  in  New  Leeds  than  when  he  went  away. 
The  mine  opened  on  the  Kawson  property  began  to  give 
from  the  first  large  promises  of  success. 

Keith  picked  up  a  newspaper  one  day  a  little  later.  It 
announced  in  large  head-lines,  as  befitted  the  chronicling  of 
such  an  event,  the  death  of  Mr.  William  Lancaster,  capi 
talist.  He  had  died  suddenly  in  his  office.  His  wife,  it 
was  stated,  was  in  Europe  and  had  been  cabled  the  sad 
intelligence.  There  was  a  sketch  of  his  life  and  also  of 
that  of  his  wife.  Their  marriage,  it  was  recalled,  had 
been  one  of  the  "romances77  of  the  season  a  few  years 
before.  He  had  taken  society  by  surprise  by  carrying  off 
one  of  the  belles  of  the  season,  the  beautiful  Miss  Yorke. 
The  rest  of  the  notice  was  taken  up  in  conjectures  as  to  the 
amount  of  his  property  and  the  sums  he  would  be  likely 
to  leave  to  the  various  charitable  institutions  of  which  he 
had  always  been  a  liberal  patron. 

Keith  laid  the  paper  down  on  his  knee  and  went  off  in 
a  revery.  Mr.  Lancaster  was  dead !  Of  all  the  men  he 
had  met  in  New  York  he  had  in  some  ways  struck  him 
the  most.  He  had  appeared  to  him  the  most  perfect  type 
of  a  gentleman ;  self-contained,  and  inclined  to  be  cold, 
but  a  man  of  elegance  as  well  as  of  brains.  He  felt  that 
he  ought  to  be  sorry  Mr.  Lancaster  was  dead,  and  he  tried 
to  be  sorry  for  his  wife.  He  started  to  write  her  a  letter 

270 


WICKERSHAM   AND   PHRONY 

of  condolence,  but  stopped  at  the  first  line,  and  could  get 
no  further.  Yet  several  times  a  day,  for  many  days,  she 
recurred  to  him,  each  time  giving  him  a  feeling  of  dissat 
isfaction,  until  at  length  he  was  able  to  banish  her  from 
his  mind. 

Prosperity  is  like  the  tide.  It  comes,  each  wave  higher 
and  higher,  until  it  almost  appears  that  it  will  never  end, 
and  then  suddenly  it  seems  to  ebb  a  little,  comes  up  again, 
recedes  again,  and,  before  one  knows  it,  is  passing  away 
as  surely  as  it  came. 

Just  when  Keith  thought  that  his  tide  was  in  full  flood, 
it  began  to  ebb  without  any  apparent  cause,  and  before  he 
was  aware  of  it,  the  prosperity  which  for  the  last  few  years 
had  been  setting  in  so  steadily  in  those  mountain  regions 
had  passed  away,  and  New  Leeds  and  he  were  left  stranded 
upon  the  rocks. 

Eumor  came  down  to  New  Leeds  from  the  North.  The 
Wickersham  enterprises  were  said  to  be  hard  hit  by  some 
of  the  failures  which  had  occurred. 

A  few  weeks  later  Keith  heard  that  Mr.  Aaron  Wicker- 
sham  was  dead.  The  clerks  said  that  he  had  had  a  quarrel 
with  his  son  the  day  after  the  panic  and  had  fallen  in  an 
apoplectic  fit  soon  afterwards.  But  then  the  old  clerks 
had  been  discharged  immediately  after  his  death.  Young 
Wickersham  said  he  did  not  want  any  dead-wood  in  his 
offices.  Also  he  did  not  want  any  dead  property.  Among 
his  first  steps  was  the  sale  of  the  old  Keith  plantation. 
Gordon,  learning  that  it  was  for  sale,  got  a  friend  to  lend 
him  the  money  and  bought  it  in,  though  it  would  scarcely 
have  been  known  for  the  same  place.  The  mansion  had 
been  stripped  of  its  old  furniture  and  pictures  soon  after 
General  Keith  had  left  there,  and  the  plantation  had  gone 
down. 

Rumor  also  said  that  Wickersham's  affairs  were  in  a  bad 
way.  Certainly  the  new  head  of  the  house  gave  no  sign  of 
it.  He  opened  a  yet  larger  office  and  began  operations  on 
a  more  extensive  scale.  The  Clarion  said  that  his  Southern 

271 


GOKDON  KEITH 

enterprises  would  be  pushed  actively,  and  that  the  stock  of 
the  Great  Gun  Mine  would  soon  be  on  the  New  York  Ex 
change. 

Ferdy  Wickersham  suddenly  returned  to  New  Leeds, 
and  New  Leeds  showed  his  presence.  Machinery  was 
shipped  sufficient  to  run  a  dozen  mines.  He  not  only 
pushed  the  old  mines,  but  opened  a  new  one.  It  was  on  a 
slip  of  land  that  lay  between  the  Eawson  property  and  the 
stream  that  ran  down  from  the  mountain.  Some  could  not 
understand  why  he  should  run  the  shaft  there,  unless  it 
was  that  he  was  bent  on  cutting  the  Kawson  property  off 
from  the  stream.  It  was  a  perilous  location  for  a  shaft, 
and  Matheson,  the  superintendent,  had  protested  against  it. 

Matheson's  objections  proved  to  be  well  founded.  The 
mine  was  opened  so  near  the  stream  that  water  broke 
through  into  it,  as  Matheson  had  predicted,  and  though 
a  strong  wall  was  built,  the  water  still  got  in,  and  it  was 
difficult  to  keep  it  pumped  out  sufficiently  to  work.  Some 
of  the  men  struck.  It  was  known  that  Wickersham  had 
nearly  come  to  a  rupture  with  the  hard-headed  Scotchman 
over  it ;  but  Wickersham  won.  Still,  the  coal  did  not  come. 
It  was  asserted  that  the  shafts  had  failed  to  reach  coal. 
Wickersham  laughed  and  kept  on— kept  on  till  coal  did 
come.  It  was  heralded  abroad.  The  Clarion  devoted  columns 
to  the  success  of  the  " Great  Gun  Mine"  and  Wickersham. 

Wickersham  naturally  showed  his  triumph.  He  cele 
brated  it  in  a  great  banquet  at  the  New  Windsor,  at  which 
speeches  were  made  which  likened  him  to  Napoleon  and 
several  other  generals.  Mr.  Plume  declared  him  "greater 
than  Themistocles,  for  he  could  play  the  lute  and  make  a 
small  city  a  great  one." 

Wickersham  himself  made  a  speech,  in  which  he  pro 
fessed  his  joy  that  he  had  silenced  the  tongue  of  slander 
and  wrested  from  detraction  a  victory  not  for  himself,  but 
for  New  Leeds.  His  enemies  and  the  enemies  of  New  Leeds 
were,  he  declared,  the  same.  They  would  soon  see  his  ene 
mies  suing  for  aid.  He  was  applauded  to  the  echo.  All  this 

272 


WICKERSHAM   AND   PHRONY 

and  much  more  was  in  the  Clarion  next  day,  with  some 
very  pointed  satire  about  "rival  mines." 

Keith,  meantime,  was  busy  poring  over  plats  and  veri 
fying  lines. 

The  old  squire  came  to  town  a  morning  or  two  later. 

"I  see  Mr.  Wickersham's  struck  coal  at  last,"  he  said  to 
Keith,  after  he  had  got  his  pipe  lit.  His  face  showed  that 
he  was  brimming  with  information. 

"Yes— our  coal."  Keith  showed  him  the  plats.  "He 
is  over  our  line— I  do  not  know  just  where,  but  in  here 
somewhere." 

The  old  fellow  put  on  his  spectacles  and  looked  long  and 
carefully. 

"He  says  he  owns  it  all  j  that  he'll  have  us  suin'  for 
pardon  ?  " 

"Suing  for  damages." 

The  old  squire  gave  a  chuckle  of  satisfaction.  "He  is 
in  and  about  there."  He  pointed  with  a  stout  and  horny 
finger. 

"How  did  you  know?" 

"Well,  you  see,  little  Dave  Dennison— you  remember 
Dave  ?  You  taught  him." 

"Perfectly— I  mean,  I  remember  him  perfectly.  He 
is  now  in  New  York." 

"Yes.  Well,  Dave  he  used  to  be  sweet  on  Phrony,  and 
he  seems  to  be  still  sweet  on  her." 

Mr.  Keith  nodded. 

"Well,  of  course,  Phrony  she's  lookin'  higher  than  Dave 
—but  you  know  how  women  air?  " 

"I  don't  know— I  know  they  are  strange  creatures," 
said  Keith,  almost  with  a  sigh,  as  his  past  with  one  woman 
came  vividly  before  him. 

"Well,  they  won't  let  a  man  go,  noway,  not  entirely— 
unless  he's  in  the  way.  So,  though  Phrony  don't  keer 
no  thin'  in  the  world  about  Dave,  she  sort  o'  kep'  him  on- 
an'-off-like  till  this  here  young  Wickersham  come  down 
here.  You  know,  I  think  she  and  him  like  each  other? 

273 


GORDON  KEITH 

He's  been  to  see  her  twicet  and  is  always  a-writin'  to  her  ?  " 
His  voice  had  an  inquiry  in  it ;  but  Keith  took  no  notice 
of  it,  and  the  old  man  went  on. 

"Well,  since  then  she's  sort  of  cooled  off  to  Dave— won't 
have  him  around— and  Dave's  got  sort  of  sour.  Well,  he 
hates  Wickersham,  and  he  up  and  told  her  t'other  night 't 
Wickersham  was  the  biggest  rascal  in  New  York  ;  that  he 
had  'most  broke  his  father  and  had  put  the  stock  of  this 
here  new  mine  on  the  market,  an'  that  he  didn't  have  coal 
enough  in  it  to  fill  his  hat  ;  that  he'd  been  down  in  it  an' 
that  the  coal  all  come  out  of  our  mine." 

Keith's  eyes  glistened. 

"Exactly." 

"Well,  with  that  she  got  so  mad  with  Dave,  she  wouldn't 
speak  to  him ;  and  Dave  left,  swearin'  he'd  settle  Wicker 
sham  and  show  him  up,  and  he'll  do  it  if  he  can." 

"Where  is  he?"  asked  Keith,  in  some  anxiety.  "Tell 
him  not  to  do  anything  till  I  see  him." 

"No  ;  I  got  hold  of  him  and  straightened  him  out.  He 
told  me  all  about  it.  He  was  right  much  cut  up.  He  jest 
cried  about  Phrony." 

Keith  wrote  a  note  to  Wickersham.  He  referred  to  the 
current  rumors  that  the  cutting  had  run  over  on  their 
side,  suggesting,  however,  that  it  might  have  been  by  in 
advertence. 

When  this  letter  was  received,  Wickersham  was  in  con 
ference  with  his  superintendent,  Mr.  Matheson.  The  in 
terview  had  been  somewhat  stormy,  for  the  superintend 
ent  had  just  made  the  very  statement  that  Keith's  note 
contained.  He  was  not  in  a  placid  frame  of  mind,  for  the 
work  was  going  badly ;  and  Mr.  Plume  was  seated  in  an 
arm-chair  listening  to  his  report.  He  did  not  like  Plume, 
and  had  wished  to  speak  privately  to  Wickersham  j  but 
Wickersham  had  told  him  to  go  ahead,  that  Plume  was  a 
friend  of  his,  and  as  much  interested  in  the  success  of  the 
work  as  Matheson  was.  Plume's  satisfaction  and  noncha 
lant  air  vexed  the  Scotchman.  Just  then  Keith's  note  came, 

274 


WICKEKSHAM   AND   PHRONY 

and  Wickersham,  after  reading  it,  tossed  it  over  first  to 
Plume.  Plume  read  it  and  handed  it  back  without  the 
least  change  of  expression.  Then  Wickersham,  after  some 
reflection,  tossed  it  to  Matheson. 

"That's  right,"  he  nodded,  when  he  had  read  it.  "We 
are  already  over  the  line  so  far  that  the  men  know  it." 

Wickersham's  temper  gave  way. 

"Well,  I  know  it.  Do  you  suppose  I  am  so  ignorant  as 
not  to  know  anything  ?  But  I  am  not  fool  enough  to  give 
it  away.  You  need  not  go  bleating  around  about  it 
everywhere." 

Plume's  eye  glistened  with  satisfaction. 

The  superintendent's  brow,  which  had  clouded,  grew 
darker.  He  had  already  stood  much  from  this  young 
man.  He  had  followed  his  orders  in  running  the  mine 
beyond  the  lines  shown  on  the  plats ;  but  he  had  accepted 
Wickersham's  statement  that  the  lines  were  wrong,  not 
the  workings. 

"I  wush  you  to  understand  one  thing,  Mr.  Wickersham," 
he  said.  "  I  came  here  to  superintend  your  mines  and  to 
do  my  work  like  an  honest  man ;  but  I  don't  propose  to 
soil  my  hands  with  any  dirrty  dealings,  or  to  engage  in  any 
violation  of  the  law ;  for  I  am  a  law-abiding,  God-fearing 
man,  and  before  I'll  do  it  I'll  go." 

"Then  you  can  go,"  said  Wickersham,  angrily.  "Gor 
and  be  d— d  to  you !  I  will  show  you  that  I  know  m^ 
own  business." 

"Then  I  will  go.  I  do  not  think  you  do  know  it.  If 
you  did,  you  would  not—" 

"Never  mind.  I  want  no  more  advice  from  you," 
snarled  Wickersham. 

"I  would  like  to  have  a  letter  saying  that  the  work  that 
has  been  done  since  you  took  charge  has  been  under  your 
express  orders." 

"I'll  see  you  condemned  first.  I  suppose  it  was  by  my 
orders  that  the  cutting  ran  so  near  to  the  creek  that  that 
work  had  to  be  done  to  keep  the  mine  from  being  flooded  ?  '* 

275 


GORDON   KEITH 

"It  was,  by  your  express  orders." 

"I  deny  it.  I  suppose  it  was  by  my  orders  that  the 
men  were  set  on  to  strike  ?  " 

"You  were  told  of  the  danger  and  the  probable  conse 
quences  of  your  insisting." 

"  Oh,  you  are  always  croaking— 

"And  I  will  croak  once  more/7  said  the  discharged  offi 
cial.  "You  will  never  make  that  mine  pay,  for  there  is 
no  coal  there.  It  is  all  on  the  other  side  of  the  line." 

"I  won't !  Well,  I  will  show  you.  I,  at  least,  stand  a 
better  chance  to  make  it  pay  than  I  ever  did  before.  I 
suppose  you  propose  now  to  go  over  to  Keith  and  tell  him 
all  you  know  about  our  work.  I  imagine  he  would  like  to 
know  it— more  than  he  knows  already." 

"I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  telling  the  private  affairs  of 
my  employers,"  said  the  man,  coldly.  "He  does  not  need 
any  information  from  me.  He  is  not  a  fool.  He  knows 
it." 

"Oh,  he  does,  does  he !  Then  you  told  him,"  asserted 
Wickersham,  furiously. 

This  was  more  than  the  Scotchman  could  bear.  He  had 
already  stood  much,  and  his  face  might  have  warned 
Wickersham.  Suddenly  it  flamed.  He  took  one  step 
forward,  a  long  one,  and  rammed  his  clinched  and  hairy 
fist  under  the  young  man's  nose. 

"You  lie !     And,  you !  you  know  you  lie.     I'm  a 

law-abiding,  God-fearing  man  j  but  if  you  don't  take  that 
back,  I  will  break  every  bone  in  your  face.  I've  a  mind 
to  do  it  anyhow." 

Wickersham  rolled  back  out  of  his  chair  as  if  the  knotted 
fist  under  his  nose  had  driven  him.  His  face  was  white  as 
he  staggered  to  his  feet. 

"I  didn't  mean— I  don't  say—.  What  do  you  mean  any 
how  ?  "  he  stammered. 

"Take  it  back."     The  foreman  advanced  slowly. 

"Yes— I  didn't  mean  anything.  What  are  you  getting 
so  mad  about  f  " 

276 


WICKERSHAM   AND   PHKONY 

The  foreman  cut  him  short  with  a  fierce  gesture. 
"Write  me  that  paper  I  want,  and  pay  me  my  money." 

"Write  what  —  1 " 

"That  the  lower  shaft  and  the  last  drift  was  cut  by  your 
order.  Write  it ! "  He  pointed  to  the  paper  on  the  desk. 

Wickersham  sat  down  and  wrote  a  few  lines.  His  hand 
trembled. 

"Here  it  is,"  he  said  sullenly. 

"Now  pay  me,"  said  the  glowering  Scotchman. 

The  money  was  paid,  and  Matheson,  without  a  word, 
turned  and  walked  out. 

"D him !      I  wish  the  mine  had  fallen  in  on  him," 

Wickersham  growled. 

"You  are  well  quit  of  him,"  said  Mr.  Plume,  consolingly. 

"I'll  get  even  with  him  yet." 

"You  have  to  answer  your  other  friend,"  observed  Mr. 
Plume. 

"I'll  answer  him."  He  seized  a  sheet  of  paper  and  began 
to  write,  annotating  it  with  observations  far  from  compli 
mentary  to  Keith  and  Matheson.  He  read  the  letter  to 
Plume.  It  was  a  curt  inquiry  whether  Mr.  Keith  meant 
to  make  the  charge  that  he  had  crossed  his  line.  If  so, 
Wickersham  &  Company  knew  their  remedy  and  would  be 
glad  to  know  at  last  the  source  whence  these  slanderous 
reports  had  come. 

"That  will  settle  him." 

Mr.  Plume  nodded.     "It  ought  to  do  it." 

Keith's  reply  to  this  note  was  sent  that  night. 

It  stated  simply  that  he  did  make  the  charge,  and  if  Mr. 
Wickersham  wished  it,  he  was  prepared  to  prove  it. 

Wickersham's  face  fell.    "Matheson's  been  to  him." 

"Or  some  one  else,"  said  Mr.  Plume.  "That  Bluffy  hates 
you  like  poison.  You've  got  to  do  something  and  do  it 
quick." 

^..Wickersham  glanced  up  at  Plume.  He  met  his  eye 
steadily.  Wickersham's  face  showed  the  shadow  of  a 
frown ;  then  it  passed,  leaving  his  face  set  and  a  shade 

277 


GOKDON   KEITH 

paler.  He  looked  at  Plume  again  and  licked  his  lips. 
Plume's  eye  was  still  on  him. 

"What  do  you  know?"  he  asked  Plume. 

"Only  what  others  know.  They  all  know  it  or  will 
soon." 

Wickersham's  face  settled  more.  He  cursed  in  a  low 
voice  and  then  relapsed  into  reflection. 

"Get  up  a  strike,"  said  Plume.  "They  are  ripe  for  it. 
Close  her  down  and  blow  her  up." 

Wickersham's  countenance  changed,  and  presently  his 
brow  cleared. 

"It  will  serve  them  right.  I'll  let  them  know  who  owns 
these  mines." 

Next  morning  there  was  posted  a  notice  of  a  cut  of 
wages  in  the  Wickersham  mines.  There  was  a  buzz  of 
excitement  in  New  Leeds  and  anger  among  the  mining 
population.  At  dinner-time  there  were  meetings  and 
much  talking.  That  night  again  there  were  meetings  and 
whiskey  and  more  talking, — louder  talking, — speeches  and 
resolutions.  Next  morning  a  committee  waited  on  Mr. 
Wickersham,  who  received  the  men  politely  but  coldly. 
He  "thought  he  knew  how  to  manage  his  own  business. 
They  must  be  aware  that  he  had  spent  large  sums  in  de 
veloping  property  which  had  not  yet  begun  to  pay.  When 
it  began  to  pay  he  would  be  happy,  etc.  If  they  chose  to 
strike,  all  right.  He  could  get  others  in  their  places." 

That  night  there  were  more  meetings.  Next  day  the 
men  did  not  go  to  work.  By  evening  many  of  them  were 
drunk.  There  was  talk  of  violence.  Bill  Bluffy,  who  was 
now  a  miner,  was  especially  savage. 

Keith  was  surprised,  a  few  days  later,  as  he  was  passing 
along  the  street,  to  meet  Euphronia  Tripper.  He  spoke 
to  her  cordially.  She  was  dressed  showily  and  was  hand 
somer  than  when  he  saw  her  last.  The  color  mounted 
her  face  as  he  stopped  her,  and  he  wondered  that  Wicker 
sham  had  not  thought  her  pretty.  When  she  blushed  she 
was  almost  a  beauty.  He  asked  about  her  people  at  home, 

278 


WICKEKSHAM   AND   PHRONY 

inquiring  in  a  breath  when  she  came,  where  she  was  stay 
ing,  how  long  she  was  going  to  remain,  etc. 

She  answered  the  first  questions  glibly  enough ;  but 
when  he  inquired  as  to  the  length  of  her  visit  and  where 
she  was  staying,  she  appeared  somewhat  confused. 

"I  have  cousins  here,  the  Turleys." 

"Oh!    You  are  with  Mr.  Turley?"    Keith  felt  relieved. 

"Ur— no— I  am  not  staying  with  them.  I  am  with  some 
other  friends."  Her  color  was  coming  and  going. 

"What  is  their  namet" 

"Their  name?    Oh— uh— I  don't  know  their  names." 

"Don't  know  their  names  ! " 

"No.  You  see  it's  a  sort  of  private  boarding-house,  and 
they  took  me  in." 

"Oh,  I  thought  you  said  they  were  friends,"  said  Keith. 

"  Why,  yes,  they  are,  but— I  have  forgotten  their  names. 
Don't  you  understand  ?  " 

Keith  did  not  understand. 

"I  only  came  a  few  days  ago,  and  I  am  going  right 
away." 

Keith  passed  on.  Euphronia  had  clearly  not  changed 
her  nature.  Insensibly,  Keith  thought  of  Ferdy  Wicker- 
sham.  Old  Rawson's  conversation  months  before  recurred 
to  him.  He  knew  that  the  girl  was  vain  and  light-headed. 
He  also  knew  Wickersham. 

He  mentioned  to  Mr.  Turley  having  seen  the  girl  in 
town,  and  the  old  fellow  went  immediately  and  took  her 
out  of  the  little  boarding-house  where  she  had  put  up,  and 
brought  her  to  his  home. 

Keith  was  not  long  in  doubt  as  to  the  connection  be 
tween  her  presence  and  Wickersham's. 

Several  times  he  had  occasion  to  call  at  Mr.  Turley's. 
On  each  occasion  he  found  Wickersham  there,  and  it  was 
very  apparent  that  he  was  not  an  unwelcome  visitor. 

It  was  evident  to  Keith  that  Wickersham  was  trying  to 
make  an  impression  on  the  young  girl. 

That  evening  so  long  ago  when  he  had  come  on  her  and 

279 


GORDON   KEITH 

Wickersham  in  the  old  squire's  orchard  came  back  to 
him,  and  the  stalwart  old  country  man,  with  his  plain  ways, 
his  stout  pride,  his  straight  ideas,  stood  before  him.  He 
knew  his  pride  in  the  girl ;  how  close  she  was  to  his  heart ; 
and  what  a  deadly  blow  it  would  be  to  him  should  any 
thing  befall  her.  He  knew,  moreover,  how  fiercely  he 
would  avenge  any  injury  to  her. 

He  determined  to  give  Wickersham  a  hint  of  the  dan 
ger  he  was  running,  if,  as  he  believed,  he  was  simply  amus 
ing  himself  with  the  girl.  He  and  Wickersham  still  kept 
up  relations  ostensibly  friendly.  Wickersham  had  told 
him  he  was  going  back  to  New  York  on  a  certain  day ; 
but  three  days  later,  as  Keith  was  returning  late  from  his 
mines,  he  came  on  Wickersham  and  Phrony  in  a  byway 
outside  of  the  town.  His  arm  was  about  her.  They  were 
so  closely  engaged  that  they  did  not  notice  him  until  he 
was  on  them.  Phrony  appeared  much  excited.  "Well,  I 
will  not  go  otherwise,"  Keith  heard  her  say.  She  turned 
hastily  away  as  Keith  came  up,  and  her  face  was  scarlet 
with  confusion,  and  even  Wickersham  looked  disconcerted. 

That  night  Keith  waited  for  Wickersham  at  the  hotel 
till  a  late  hour,  and  when  at  length  Wickersham  came  in 
he  met  him. 

"I  thought  you  were  going  back  to  New  York?  "  he  said. 

"I  find  it  pleasanter  here,"  said  the  young  man,  with  a 
significant  look  at  him. 

"You  appear  to  find  it  pleasant." 

"I  always  make  it  pleasant  for  myself  wherever  I  go, 
my  boy.  You  are  a  Stoic ;  I  prefer  the  Epicurean  phi 
losophy." 

"Yes?    And  how  about  others ?" 

"Oh,  I  make  it  pleasant  for  them  too.  Didn't  it  look  so 
to-day?"  The  glance  he  gave  him  authorized  Keith  to  go  on. 

"Did  it  ever  occur  to  you  that  you  might  make  it  too 
pleasant  for  them— for  a  time?  " 

"  Ah  !    I  have  thought  of  that.    But  that's  their  lookout." 

"Wickersham,"  said  Keith,  calmly,  "that's  a  very  young 

280 


WICKERSHAM   AND   PHRONY 

girl  and  a  very  ignorant  girl,  and,  so  far  as  I  know,  a  very 
innocent  one." 

"Doubtless  you  know !"  said  the  other,  insolently. 

"Yes,  I  believe  she  is.  Moreover,  she  comes  of  very 
good  and  respectable  people.  Her  grandfather—" 

"My  dear  boy,  I  don't  care  anything  about  the  grand 
father  !  It  is  only  the  granddaughter  I  am  interesting 
myself  in.  She  is  the  only  pretty  girl  within  a  hundred 
miles  of  here,  unless  you  except  your  old  friend  of  the 
dance -hall,  and  I  always  interest  myself  in  the  prettiest 
woman  about  me." 

"Do  you  intend  to  marry  her?" 

Wickersham  laughed,  heartily  and  spontaneously. 

"Oh,  come  now,  Keith.  Are  you  going  to  marry  the 
dance-hall  keeper,  simply  because  she  has  white  teeth  ?  " 

Keith  frowned  a  little. 

"Never  mind  about  me.  Do  you  propose  to  marry  her? 
She,  at  least,  does  not  keep  a  dance-hall." 

"No  ;  I  shall  leave  that  for  you."  His  face  and  tone  were 
insolent,  and  Keith  gripped  his  chair.  He  felt  himself 
flush.  Then  his  blood  surged  back ;  but  he  controlled 
himself  and  put  by  the  insolence  for  the  moment. 

"Leave  me  out  of  the  matter.  Do  you  know  what  you 
are  doing? "  His  voice  was  a  little  unsteady. 

"I  know  at  least  what  you  are  doing  :  interfering  in  my 
business.  I  know  how  to  take  care  of  myself,  and  I  don't 
need  your  assistance." 

"I  was  not  thinking  of  you,  but  of  her— " 

"That's  the  difference  between  us.  I  was,"  said  Ferdy, 
coolly.  He  rolled  a  cigarette. 

"Well,  you  will  have  need  to  think  of  yourself  if  you 
wrong  that  girl,"  said  Keith.  "For  I  tell  you  now  that  if 
anything  were  to  happen  to  her,  your  life  would  not  be 
worth  a  button  in  these  mountains." 

"There  are  other  places  besides  the  mountains,"  observed 
Wickersham.  But  Keith  noticed  that  he  had  paled  a  little 
and  his  voice  had  lost  some  of  its  assurance. 

281 


GORDON   KEITH 

"I  don't  believe  the  world  would  be  big  enough  to  hide 
you.  I  know  two  men  who  would  kill  you  on  sight." 

"Who  is  the  other  one?"  asked  Wickersham. 

"I  am  not  counting  myself— yet,"  said  Keith,  quietly. 
"It  would  not  be  necessary.  The  old  squire  and  Dave 
Dennison  would  take  my  life  if  I  interfered  with  their 
rights." 

"You  are  prudent,"  said  Ferdy. 

"I  am  forbearing,"  said  Keith. 

Wickersham's  tone  was  as  insolent  as  ever,  but  as  he 
leaned  over  and  reached  for  a  match,  Keith  observed  that 
his  hand  shook  slightly.  And  the  eyes  that  were  levelled 
at  Keith  through  the  smoke  of  his  cigarette  were  unsteady. 

Next  morning  Ferdy  Wickersham  had  a  long  interview 
with  Plume,  and  that  night  Mr.  Plume  had  a  conference 
in  his  private  office  with  a  man— a  secret  conference,  to 
judge  from  the  care  with  which  doors  were  locked,  blinds 
pulled  down,  and  voices  kept  lowered.  He  was  a  stout, 
youngish  fellow,  with  a  low  forehead,  lowering  eyes,  and 
a  sodden  face.  He  might  once  have  been  good-looking, 
but  drink  was  written  on  Mr.  William  Bluffy  now  in  in 
effaceable  characters.  Plume  alternately  cajoled  him  and 
hectored  him,  trying  to  get  his  consent  to  some  act  which 
he  was  unwilling  to  perform. 

"I  don't  see  the  slightest  danger  in  it,"  insisted  Plume, 
"and  you  did  not  use  to  be  afraid.  Your  nerves  must  be 
getting  loose." 

The  other  man's  eyes  rested  on  him  with  something  like 
contempt. 

"My  nerves  're  all  right.  I  ain't  skeered ;  but  I  don't 

want  to  mix  up  in  your business.  If  a  man  wants 

trouble  with  me,  he  can  get  it  and  he  knows  how  to  do  it. 
I  don't  like  yer  man  Wickersham— not  a  little  bit.  But 
I  don't  want  to  do  it  that  way.  I'd  like  to  meet  him  fair 
and  full  on  the  street  and  settle  which  was  the  best  man." 

Plume  began  again.  "You  can't  do  that  way  here  now. 
That's  broke  up.  But  the  way  I  tell  you  is  the  real  way." 

282 


WICKERSHAM   AND   PHRONY 

He  pictured  Wickersham's  wealth,  his  hardness  toward  his 
employes,  his  being  a  Yankee,  his  boast  that  he  would 
injure  Keith  and  shut  up  his  mine. 

"What've  you  got  against  him?"  demanded  Mr.  Bluffy. 
"I  thought  you  and  him  was  thick  as  thieves?" 

"It's  a  public  benefit  I'm  after,"  declared  Plume,  unblush- 
ingly.  "I  am  for  New  Leeds  first,  last,  and  all  the  time." 

"You  must  think  you  are  New  Leeds,"  observed  Bluffy. 

Plume  laughed. 

"  I've  got  nothing  against  him  particularly,  though  he's 
injured  me  deeply.  Hasn't  he  thrown  all  the  men  out  of 
work ! "  He  pushed  the  bottle  over  toward  the  other, 
and  he  poured  out  another  drink  and  tossed  it  off.  "You 
needn't  be  so  easy  about  him.  He's  been  mean  enough 
to  you.  Wasn't  it  him  that  gave  the  description  of  you 
that  night  when  you  stopped  the  stage  ?  " 

Bill  Bluffy's  face  changed,  and  there  was  a  flash  in  his  eye. 

"Who  says  I  done  it?  " 

Plume  laughed.  "I  don't  say  you  did  it.  You  needn't 
get  mad  with  me.  He  says  you  did  it.  Keith  said  he 
didn't  know  what  sort  of  man  it  was.  Wickersham  de 
scribed  you  so  that  everybody  knew  you.  I  reckon  if 
Keith  had  back-stood  him  you'd  have  had  a  harder  time 
than  you  did." 

The  cloud  had  gathered  deeper  on  Bluffy's  brow.  He 
took  another  drink. 

" him  !     I'll  blow  up  his mine  and  him,  too  ! " 

he  growled.     "How  did  you  say  'twas  to  be  done? " 

Plume  glanced  around  at  the  closed  windows  and  low 
ered  his  voice  as  he  made  certain  explanations. 

"I'll  furnish  the  dynamite." 

"All  right.     Give  me  the  money." 

But  Plume  demurred. 

"Not  till  it's  done.  I  haven't  any  doubt  about  your  doing 
it,"  he  explained  quickly,  seeing  a  black  look  in  Bluffy's 
eyes.  "But  you  know  yourself  you're  liable  to  get  full,  and 
you  mayn't  do  it  as  well  as  you  otherwise  would." 

283 


GORDON   KEITH 

"Oh,  if  I  say  I'll  do  it,  I'll  do  it." 

"You  needn't  be  afraid  of  not  getting  your  money." 

"I  ain't  afraid,"  said  Bluffy,  with  an  oath.  "If  I  don't 
get  it  I'll  get  blood."  His  eyes  as  they  rested  on  Plume 
had  a  sudden  gleam  in  them. 

When  Wickersham  and  Plume  met  that  night  the  latter 
gave  an  account  of  his  negotiation.  "It's  all  fixed,"  he 
said,  "but  it  costs  more  than  I  expected— a  lot  more,"  he 
said  slowly,  gauging  Wickersham's  views  by  his  face. 

"How  much  more?     I  told  you  my  limit." 

"We  had  to  do  it,"  said  Mr.  Plume,  without  stating  the 
price. 

Wickersham  swore. 

"He  won't  do  it  till  he  gets  the  cash,"  pursued  Plume. 
"But  I'll  be  responsible  for  him,"  he  added  quickly,  noting 
the  change  in  Wickersham's  expression. 

Again  Wickersham  swore  j  and  Plume  changed  the  sub 
ject. 

"How'd  you  come  out?  "  he  asked. 

"When— what  do  you  mean?" 

Plume  jerked  his  thumb  over  his  shoulder.  "With  the 
lady?" 

Wickersham  sniffed.  "All  right."  He  drifted  for  a 
moment  into  reflection.  "The  little  fool's  got  conscien 
tious  doubts,"  he  said  presently,  with  a  half-smile.  "Won't 
go  unless—."  His  eyes  rested  on  Plume's  with  a  gauging 
expression  in  them. 

"Well,  why  not?  That's  natural  enough.  She's  been 
brought  up  right.  They're  proud  as  anybody.  Her 
grandfather—" 

"You're  a  fool ! "  said  Wickersham,  briefly. 

"You  can  get  some  one  to  go  through  a  ceremony  for  you 
that  would  satisfy  her  and  wouldn't  peach  afterwards—" 

"What  a  damned  scoundrel  you  are,  Plume  ! "  said  Mr. 
Wickersham,  coldly. 

Plume's  expression  was  between  a  smile  and  a  scowl,  but 
the  smile  was  less  pleasant  than  the  frown. 

284 


WICKERSHAM   AND   PHRONY 

"Get  her  to  go  to  New  York—  When  you've  got  her 
there  you've  got  her.  She  can't  come  back.  Or  I  could 
perform  it  myself1?  I've  been  a  preacher— am  one  now," 
said  Plume,  without  noticing  the  interruption  further  than 
by  a  cold  gleam  in  his  eyes. 

Wickersham  laughed  derisively. 

"Oh,  no,  not  that.  I  may  be  given  to  my  own  diver 
sions  somewhat  recklessly,  but  I'm  not  so  bad  as  to  let 
you  touch  any  one  I— I  take  an  interest  in." 

"As  you  like,"  said  Plume,  curtly.  "I  just  thought  it 
might  be  a  convenience  to  you.  I'd  help  you  out.  I  don't 

see  't  you  need  be  so squeamish.  What  you're  doing 

ain't  so  pure  an'  lofty  't  you  can  set  up  for  Marcus  Aure- 
lius  and  St.  Anthony  at  once." 

"At  least,  it's  better  than  it  would  be  if  I  let  you  take  a 
hand  in  it,"  sneered  Wickersham. 

The  following  afternoon  Wickersham  left  New  Leeds 
somewhat  ostentatiously.  A  few  strikers  standing  sullenly 
about  the  station  jeered  as  he  passed  in.  But  he  took  no 
notice  of  them.  He  passed  on  to  his  train. 

A  few  nights  later  a  tremendous  explosion  shook  the 
town,  rattling  the  windows,  awakening  people  from  their 
beds,  and  calling  the  timid  and  the  curious  into  the 
streets. 

It  was  known  next  morning  that  some  one  had  blown  up 
the  Great  Gun  Mine,  opened  at  such  immense  cost.  The 
dam  that  kept  out  the  water  was  blown  up  j  the  machinery 
had  been  wrecked,  and  the  mine  was  completely  destroyed. 

The  Clarion  denounced  it  as  the  deed  of  the  strikers. 
The  strikers  held  a  meeting  and  denounced  the  charge  as 
a  foul  slander  ;  but  the  Clarion  continued  to  denounce  them 
as  hostes  humani  generis. 

It  was,  however,  rumored  around  that  it  was  not  the 
strikers  at  all.  One  rumor  even  declared  that  it  was  done 
by  the  connivance  of  the  company.  It  was  said  that  Bill 
Bluffy  had  boasted  of  it  in  his  cups.  But  when  Mr.  Bluffy 
was  asked  about  it  he  denied  the  story  in  to  to.  He  wasn't 

285 


GORDON   KEITH 

such  a fool  as  to  do  such  a  thing  as  that,  he  said.    For 

the  rest,  he  cursed  Mr.  Plume  with  bell,  book,  and  candle. 

A  rumor  came  to  Keith  one  morning  a  few  days  later 
that  Phrony  Tripper  had  disappeared. 

She  had  left  New  Leeds  more  than  a  week  before,  as  was 
supposed  by  her  relatives,  the  Turleys,  to  pay  a  visit  to 
friends  in  the  adjoining  State  before  returning  home.  To 
others  she  had  said  that  she  was  going  to  the  North  for  a 
visit,  whilst  yet  others  affirmed  that  she  had  given  another 
destination.  However  this  might  be,  she  had  left  not  long 
after  Wickersham  had  taken  his  departure,  and  her  leaving 
was  soon  coupled  with  his  name.  One  man  even  declared 
that  he  had  seen  the  two  together  in  New  York. 

Another  name  was  connected  with  the  girl's  disappear 
ance,  though  in  a  different  way.  Terpsichore  suggested 
that  Mr.  Plume  had  had  something  to  do  with  it,  and  that 
he  could  give  information  on  the  subject  if  he  would.  Mr. 
Plume  had  been  away  from  New  Leeds  for  several  days 
about  the  time  of  Phrony's  departure. 

"He  did  that  Wickersham's  dirty  work  for  him  ;  that  is, 
what  he  didn't  do  for  himself,"  declared  the  young  woman. 

Plume's  statement  was  that  he  had  been  off  on  private 
business  and  had  met  with  an  accident.  The  nature  of  this 
"accident"  was  evident  in  his  appearance. 

Keith  was  hardly  surprised  when,  a  day  or  two  after 
the  rumor  of  the  girl's  disappearance  reached  him,  a  heavy 
step  thumping  outside  his  office  door  announced  the 
arrival  of  Squire  Rawson.  When  the  old  man  opened  the 
door,  Keith  was  shocked  to  see  the  change  in  him.  He 
was  haggard  and  worn,  but  there  was  that  in  his  face  which 
made  Keith  feel  that  whoever  might  be  concerned  in  his 
granddaughter's  disappearance  had  reason  to  beware  of 
meeting  him. 

"You  have  heard  the  news?"  he  said,  as  he  sank  into 
the  chair  which  Keith  offered  him. 

Keith  said  that  he  had  heard  it,  and  regretted  it  more 
than  he  could  express.  He  had  only  waited,  hoping  that 
it  might  prove  untrue,  to  write  to  him. 

286 


WICKEKSHAM   AND   PHRONY 

"Yes,  she  has  gone,"  added  the  old  man,  moodily.  "She's 
gone  off  and  married  without  sayin'  a  word  to  me  or  any 
body.  I  didn't  think  she'd  'a'  done  it." 

Keith  gasped  with  astonishment.  A  load  appeared  to 
be  lifted  from  him.  After  all,  she  was  married.  The  next 
moment  this  hope  was  dashed  by  the  squire. 

"I  always  thought,"  said  the  old  man,  "that  that  young 
fellow  was  hankerin'  around  her  a  good  deal.  I  never 
liked  him,  because  I  didn't  trust  him.  And  I  wouldn't 
'a'  liked  him  anyway,"  he  added  frankly ;  "and  I  cer 
tainly  don't  like  him  now.  But—."  He  drifted  off  into 
reflection  for  a  moment  and  then  came  back  again— "Wo 
men-folks  are  curious  creatures.  Phrony's  mother  she  ap 
peared  to  like  him,  and  I  suppose  we  will  have  to  make 
up  with  him.  So  I  hev  come  up  here  to  see  if  I  can  git 
his  address." 

Keith's  heart  sank  within  him.  He  knew  Ferdy  Wick- 
ersham  too  well  not  to  know  on  what  a  broken  reed  the 
old  man  leaned. 

"Some  folks  was  a-hintin',"  pursued  the  old  fellow,  speak 
ing  slowly,  "as,  maybe,  that  young  man  hadn't  married  her  ; 
but  I  knowed  better  then  that,  because,  even  if  Phrony 
warn't  a  good  girl,  — which  she  is,  though  she  ain't  got  much 
sense,— he  knowed  me.  They  ain't  none  of  'em  ever  inti 
mated  that  to  me,"  he  added  explanatorily. 

Keith  was  glad  that  he  had  not  intimated  it.  As  he 
looked  at  the  squire,  he  knew  how  dangerous  it  would 
be.  His  face  was  settled  into  a  grimness  which  showed  how 
perilous  it  would  be  for  the  man  who  had  deceived  Phrony, 
if,  as  Keith  feared,  his  apprehensions  were  well  founded. 

But  at  that  moment  both  Phrony  and  Wickersham  were 
far  beyond  Squire  Rawson's  reach. 

The  evening  after  Phrony  Tripper  left  New  Leeds,  a 
young  woman  somewhat  closely  veiled  descended  from  the 
train  in  Jersey  City.  Here  she  was  joined  on  the  platform 
a  moment  later  by  a  tall  man  who  had  boarded  the  train 
at  Washington,  and  who,  but  for  his  spruced  appearance, 

287 


GORDON  KEITH 

might  have  been  taken  for  Mr.  J.  Quincy  Plume.  The 
young  woman  having  intrusted  herself  to  his  guidance,  he 
conducted  her  across  the  ferry,  and  on  the  other  side  they 
were  met  by  a  gentleman,  who  wore  the  collar  of  his  over 
coat  turned  up.  After  a  meeting  more  or  less  formal  on 
one  side  and  cordial  on  the  other,  the  gentleman  gave  a 
brief  direction  to  Mr.  Plume,  and,  with  the  lady,  entered  a 
carriage  which  was  waiting  and  drove  off,  Mr.  Plume  fol 
lowing  a  moment  later  in  another  vehicle. 

"Know  who  that  is?"  asked  one  of  the  ferry  officials  of 
another.  "  That's  F.  C.  Wickersham,  who  has  made  such 
a  pile  of  money.  They  say  he  owns  a  whole  State  down 
South." 

" Who  is  the  lady?" 

The  other  laughed.  " Don't  ask  me  ;  you  can't  keep  up 
with  him.  They  say  they  can't  resist  him." 

An  hour  or  two  later,  Mr.  Plume,  who  had  been  waiting 
for  some  time  in  the  cafe  of  a  small  hotel  not  very  far 
up-town,  was  joined  by  Mr.  Wickersham,  whose  counte 
nance  showed  both  irritation  and  disquietude.  Plume,  who 
had  been  consoling  himself  with  the  companionship  of  a 
decanter  of  rye  whiskey,  was  in  a  more  jovial  mood,  which 
further  irritated  the  other. 

" You  say  she  has  balked?  Jove!  She  has  got  more  in 
her  than  I  thought ! " 

"She  is  a  fool !  "  said  Wickersham. 

Plume  shut  one  eye.  "Don't  know  about  that.  Madame 
de  Maintenon  said  :  l  There  is  nothing  so  clever  as  a  good 
woman.'  Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do  ?  " 

"I  don't  know." 

"Take  a  drink,"  said  Mr.  Plume,  to  whom  this  was  a  fre 
quent  solvent  of  a  difficulty. 

Wickersham  followed  his  advice,  but  remained  silent. 

In  fact,  Mr.  Wickersham,  after  having  laid  most  careful 
plans  and  reached  the  point  for  which  he  had  striven, 
found  himself,  at  the  very  moment  of  victory,  in  danger  of 
being  defeated.  He  had  induced  Phrony  Tripper  to  come 

288 


WICKERSHAM   AND   PHRONY 

to  New  York.  She  was  desperately  in  love  with  him,  and 
would  have  gone  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  for  him.  But 
he  had  promised  to  marry  her ;  it  was  to  marry  him  that 
she  had  come.  As  strong  as  was  her  passion  for  him,  and  as 
vain  and  foolish  as  she  was,  she  had  one  principle  which 
was  stronger  than  any  other  feeling— a  sense  of  modesty. 
This  had  been  instilled  in  her  from  infancy.  Among  her 
people  a  woman's  honor  was  ranked  higher  than  any  other 
feminine  virtue.  Her  love  for  Wickersham  but  strength 
ened  her  resolution,  for  she  believed  that,  unless  he  mar 
ried  her,  his  life  would  not  be  safe  from  her  relatives. 
Now,  after  two  hours,  in  which  he  had  used  every  persua 
sion,  Wickersham,  to  his  unbounded  astonishment,  found 
himself  facing  defeat.  He  had  not  given  her  credit  for  so 
much  resolution.  Her  answer  to  all  his  efforts  to  overcome 
her  determination  was  that,  unless  he  married  her  imme 
diately,  she  would  return  home ;  she  would  not  remain  in 
the  hotel  a  single  night.  "I  know  they  will  take  me 
back,"  she  said,  weeping. 

This  was  the  subject  of  his  conversation,  now,  with  his 
agent,  and  he  was  making  up  his  mind  what  to  do,  aided 
by  more  or  less  frequent  applications  to  the  decanter  which 
stood  between  them. 

"What  she  says  is  true,"  declared  Plume,  his  courage 
stimulated  by  his  liberal  potations.  "You  won't  be  able 
to  go  back  down  there  any  more.  There  are  a  half-dozen 
men  I  know,  would  consider  it  their  duty  to  blow  your 
brains  out." 

Wickersham  filled  his  glass  and  tossed  off  a  drink.  "I 
am  not  going  down  there  any  more,  anyhow." 

"I  suppose  not.  But  I  don't  believe  you  would  be  safe 
even  up  here.  There  is  that  devil,  Dennison  :  he  hates  you 
worse  than  poison." 

"Oh— up  here— they  aren't  going  to  trouble  me  up 
here." 

"I  don't  know— if  he  ever  got  a  show  at  you—  Why 
don't  you  let  me  perform  the  ceremony  ?  "  he  began  per- 

289 


GOKDON   KEITH 

suasively.  "She  knows  I've  been  a  preacher.  That  will 
satisfy  her  scruples,  and  then,  if  you  ever  had  to  make  it 
known—  ?  But  no  one  would  know  then." 

Wickersham  declined  this  with  a  show  of  virtue.  He 
did  not  mention  that  he  had  suggested  this  to  the  girl  but 
she  had  positively  refused  it.  She  would  be  married  by  a 
regular  preacher  or  she  would  go  home. 

"There  must  be  some  one  in  this  big  town/'  suggested 
Plume,  "who  will  do  such  a  job  privately  and  keep  it 
quiet?  Where  is  that  preacher  you  were  talking  about 
once  that  took  flyers  with  you  on  the  quiet  ?  You  can  seal 
his  mouth.  And  if  the  worst  comes  to  the  worst,  there  is 
Montana ;  you  can  always  get  out  of  it  in  six  weeks  with 
an  order  of  publication.  Jdid  it,"  said  Mr.  Plume,  quietly, 
"and  never  had  any  trouble  about  it." 

"You  did !  Well,  that's  one  part  of  your  rascality  I 
didn't  know  about." 

"I  guess  there  are  a  good  many  of  us  have  little  bits  of 
history  that  we  don't  talk  about  much,"  observed  Mr. 
Plume,  calmly.  "I  wouldn't  have  told  you  now,  but  I 
wanted  to  help  you  out  of  the  fix  that—" 

"That  you  have  helped  me  get  into,"  said  Wickersham, 
with  a  sneer. 

"There  is  no  trouble  about  it,"  Plume  went  on.  "You 
don't  want  to  marry  anybody  else— now,  and  meantime  it 
will  give  you  the  chance  you  want  of  controlling  old  Raw- 
son's  interest  down  there.  The  old  fellow  can't  live  long, 
and  Phrony  is  his  only  heir.  You  will  have  it  all  your 
own  way.  You  can  keep  it  quiet  if  you  wish,  and  if  you 
don't,  you  can  acknowledge  it  and  bounce  your  friend 
Keith.  If  I  had  your  hand  I  bet  I'd  know  how  to  play 
it." 

"Well,  by !  I  wish  you  had  it,"  said  Wickersham, 

angrily. 

Wickersham  had  been  thinking  hard  during  Plume's 
statement  of  the  case,  and  what  with  his  argument  and 
an  occasional  application  to  the  decanter  of  whiskey,  he 

290 


WICKERSHAM   AND   PHKONY 

was   beginning  to  yield.     Just  then  a   sealed  note  was 
handed  him  by  a  waiter.     He  tore  it  open  and  read  : 

"I  am  going  home ;    my  heart  is  broken.     Good-by. 

"PHRONY." 

With  an  oath  under  his  breath,  he  wrote  in  pencil  on  a 
card  :  "Wait ;  I  will  be  with  you  directly." 

"Take  that  to  the  lady,"  he  said.  Scribbling  a  few  lines 
more  on  another  card,  he  gave  Plume  some  hasty  directions 
and  left  him. 

When,  five  minutes  afterwards,  Mr.  Plume  finished  the 
decanter,  and  left  the  hotel,  his  face  had  a  crafty  look  on 
it.  "This  should  be  worth  a  good  deal  to  you,  J.  Quincy," 
he  said. 

An  hour  later  the  Rev.  Mr.  Kimmon  performed  in  his 
private  office  a  little  ceremony,  at  which,  besides  himself, 
were  present  only  the  bride  and  groom  and  a  witness  who 
had  come  to  him  a  half-hour  before  with  a  scribbled 
line  in  pencil  requesting  his  services.  If  Mr.  Kimmon 
was  startled  when  he  first  read  the  request,  the  sur 
prise  had  passed  away.  The  groom,  it  is  true,  was,  when 
he  appeared,  decidedly  under  the  influence  of  liquor,  and 
his  insistence  that  the  ceremony  was  to  be  kept  entirely 
secret  had  somewhat  disturbed  Mr.  Eimmon  for  a  moment. 
But  he  remembered  Mr.  Plume's  assurance  that  the  bride 
was  a  great  heiress  in  the  South,  and  knowing  that  Ferdy 
Wickersham  was  a  man  who  rarely  lost  his  head,— a  circum 
stance  which  the  latter  testified  by  handing  him  a  roll  of 
greenbacks  amounting  to  exactly  one  hundred  dollars,— 
and  the  bride  being  very  pretty  and  shy,  and  manifestly 
most  eager  to  be  married,  he  gave  his  word  to  keep  the  mat 
ter  a  secret  until  they  should  authorize  him  to  divulge  it. 

When  the  ceremony  was  over,  the  bride  requested  Mr. 
Rimmon  to  give  her  her  "marriage  lines."  This  Mr.  Rim- 
mon  promised  to  do ;  but  as  he  would  have  to  fill  out  the 
blanks,  which  would  take  a  little  time,  the  bride  and 

291 


GORDON   KEITH 

groom,  having  signed  the  paper,  took  their  departure  with 
out  waiting  for  the  certificate,  leaving  Mr.  Plume  to  bring 
it. 

A  day  or  two  later  a  steamship  of  one  of  the  less  popular 
companies  sailing  to  a  Continental  port  had  among  its 
passengers  a  gentleman  and  a  lady  who,  having  secured 
their  accommodations  at  the  last  moment,  did  not  appear 
on  the  passenger  list. 

It  happened  that  they  were  unknown  to  any  of  the 
other  passengers,  and  as  they  were  very  exclusive,  they 
made  no  acquaintances  during  the  voyage.  If  Mrs.  Wag- 
ram,  the  name  by  which  the  lady  was  known  on  board, 
had  one  regret,  it  was  that  Mr.  Plume  had  failed  to  send 
her  her  marriage  certificate,  as  he  had  promised  to  do. 
Her  husband,  however,  made  so  light  of  it  that  it  reassured 
her,  and  she  was  too  much  taken  up  with  her  wedding- 
ring  and  new  diamonds  to  think  that  anything  else  was 
necessary. 


292 


CHAPTEK   XX 
MRS.    LANCASTER'S    WIDOWHOOD 

THE  first  two  years  of  her  widowhood  Alice  Lancaster 
spent  in  retirement.  Even  the  busy  tongue  of  Mrs. 
Nailor  could  find  little  to  criticise  in  the  young  widow. 
To  be  sure,  that  accomplished  critic  made  the  most  of  this 
little,  and  disseminated  her  opinion  that  Alice's  grief  for 
Mr.  Lancaster  could  only  be  remorse  for  her  indifference 
to  him  during  his  life.  Every  one  knew,  she  said,  how  she 
had  neglected  him. 

The  idea  that  Alice  Lancaster  was  troubled  with  regrets 
was  not  as  unfounded  as  the  rest  of  Mrs.  bailor's  ill-natured 
charge.  She  was  attached  to  her  husband,  and  had  always 
meant  to  be  a  good  wife  to  him. 

She  was  as  good  a  wife  as  her  mother  and  her  friends 
would  permit  her  to  be.  Gossip  had  not  spared  some  of 
her  best  friends.  Even  as  proud  a  woman  as  young  Mrs. 
Wentworth  had  not  escaped.  But  Gossip  had  never  yet 
touched  the  name  of  Mrs.  Lancaster,  and  Alice  did  not 
mean  that  it  should.  It  was  not  unnatural  that  she  should 
have  accepted  the  liberty  which  her  husband  gave  her  and 
have  gone  out  more  and  more,  even  though  he  could  ac 
company  her  less  and  less. 

No  maelstrom  is  more  unrelenting  in  its  grasp  than  is 
that  of  Society.  Only  those  who  sink,  or  are  cast  aside  by 
its  seething  waves,  escape.  And  before  she  knew  it,  Alice 
Lancaster  had  found  herself  drawn  into  the  whirlpool. 

An  attractive  proposal  had  been  made  to  her  to  go  abroad 
and  join  some  friends  of  hers  for  a  London  season  a  year  or 

293 


GORDON   KEITH 

two  before.  Grinnell  Rhodes  had  married  Miss  Creamer, 
who  was  fond  of  European  society,  and  they  had  taken  a 
house  in  London  for  the  season,  which  promised  to  be  very 
gay,  and  had  suggested  to  Mrs.  Lancaster  to  visit  them. 
Mr.  Lancaster  had  found  himself  unable  to  go.  A  good  many 
matters  of  importance  had  been  undertaken  by  him,  and  he 
must  see  them  through,  he  said.  Moreover,  he  had  not  been 
very  well  of  late,  and  he  had  felt  that  he  should  be  rather 
a  drag  amid  the  gayeties  of  the  London  season.  Alice  had 
offered  to  give  up  the  trip,  but  he  would  not  hear  of  it. 
She  must  go,  he  said,  and  he  knew  who  would  be  the  most 
charming  woman  in  London.  So,  having  extracted  from 
him  the  promise  that,  when  his  business  matters  were  all 
arranged,  he  would  join  her  for  a  little  run  on  the  Con 
tinent,  she  had  set  off  for  Paris,  where  "awful  beauty  puts 
on  all  its  arms,"  to  make  her  preparations  for  the  cam 
paign. 

Mr.  Lancaster  had  not  told  her  of  an  interview  which 
her  mother  had  had  with  him,  in  which  she  had  pointed 
out  that  Alice's  health  was  suffering  from  her  want  of  gayety 
and  amusement.  He  was  not  one  to  talk  of  himself. 

Alice  Lancaster  was  still  in  Paris  when  a  cable  message 
announced  to  her  Mr.  Lancaster's  death.  It  was  only  after 
his  death  that  she  awoke  to  the  unselfishness  of  his  life 
and  to  the  completeness  of  his  devotion  to  her. 

His  will,  after  making  provision  for  certain  charities  with 
which  he  had  been  associated  in  his  lifetime,  left  all  his 
great  fortune  to  her  j  and  there  was,  besides,  a  sealed  letter 
left  for  her  in  which  he  poured  out  his  heart  to  her.  From 
it  she  learned  that  he  had  suffered  greatly  and  had  known 
that  he  was  liable  to  die  at  any  time.  He,  however,  would 
not  send  for  her  to  come  home,  for  fear  of  spoiling  her 
holiday. 

"I  will  not  say  I  have  not  been  lonely,"  he  wrote.  "For 
God  knows  how  lonely  I  have  been  since  you  left.  The 
light  went  with  you  and  will  return  only  when  you  come 
home.  Sometimes  I  have  felt  that  I  could  not  endure  it 

294 


MRS.  LANCASTER'S  WIDOWHOOD 

and  must  send  for  you  or  go  to  you ;  but  the  first  would 
have  been  selfishness  and  the  latter  a  breach  of  duty.  The 
times  have  been  such  that  I  have  not  felt  it  right  to  leave, 
as  so  many  interests  have  been  intrusted  to  me.  ...  It  is 
possible  that  I  may  never  see  your  face  again.  I  have 
made  a  will  which  I  hope  will  please  you.  It  will,  at  least, 
show  you  that  I  trust  you  entirely.  I  make  no  restrictions  ; 
for  I  wish  you  greater  happiness  than  I  fear  I  have  been 
able  to  bring  you.  ...  In  business  affairs  I  suggest  that 
you  consult  with  Norman  Wentworth,  who  is  a  man  of  high 
integrity  and  of  a  conservative  mind.  Should  you  wish 
advice  as  to  good  charities,  I  can  think  of  no  better  adviser 
than  Dr.  Templeton.  He  has  long  been  my  friend." 

In  the  first  excess  of  her  grief  and  remorse,  Alice  Lan 
caster  came  home  and  threw  herself  heart  and  soul  into 
charitable  work.  As  Mr.  Lancaster  had  suggested,  she 
consulted  Dr.  Templeton,  the  old  rector  of  a  small  and 
unfashionable  church  on  a  side  street.  Under  his  guid 
ance  she  found  a  world  as  new  and  as  diverse  from  that 
in  which  she  had  always  lived  as  another  planet  would 
have  been. 

She  found  in  some  places  a  life  where  vice  was  esteemed 
more  honorable  than  virtue,  because  it  brought  more  bread. 
She  found  things  of  which  she  had  never  dreamed  :  things 
which  appeared  incredible  after  she  had  seen  them. 
These  things  she  found  within  a  half-hour's  walk  of  her 
sumptuous  home  ;  within  a  few  blocks  of  the  avenue  and 
streets  where  Wealth  and  Plenty  took  their  gay  pleas 
ure  and  where  riches  poured  forth  in  a  riot  of  splendid 
extravagance. 

She  would  have  turned  back,  but  for  the  old  clergyman's 
inspiring  courage ;  she  would  have  poured  out  her  wealth 
indiscriminately,  but  for  his  wisdom— but  for  his  wisdom 
and  Norman  Wentworth's. 

"No,  my  dear,"  said  the  old  man  ;  "to  give  lavishly  with 
out  discrimination  is  to  put  a  premium  on  beggary  and 
to  subject  yourself  to  imposture." 

295 


GORDON   KEITH 

This  Norman  indorsed,  and  under  their  direction  she 
soon  found  ways  to  give  of  her  great  means  toward  charities 
which  were  far-reaching  and  enduring.  She  learned  also 
what  happiness  comes  from  knowledge  of  others  and  knowl 
edge  of  how  to  help  them. 

It  was  surprising  to  her  friends  what  a  change  came  over 
the  young  woman.  Her  point  of  view,  her  manner,  her 
face,  her  voice  changed.  Her  expression,  which  had  once 
been  so  proud  as  to  mar  somewhat  her  beauty,  softened ; 
her  manner  increased  in  cordiality  and  kindness  ;  her  voice 
acquired  a  new  and  sincerer  tone. 

Even  Mrs,  Nailor  observed  that  the  enforced  retirement 
appeared  to  have  chastened  the  young  widow,  though  she 
would  not  admit  that  it  could  be  for  anything  than  effect. 

"Black  always  was  the  most  bewilderingly  becoming 
thing  to  her  that  I  ever  saw.  Don't  you  remember  those 
effects  she  used  to  produce  with  black  and  just  a  dash  of 
red?  Well,  she  wears  black  so  deep  you  might  think  it 
was  poor  Mr.  Lancaster's  pall ;  but  I  have  observed  that 
whenever  I  have  seen  her  there  is  always  something  red 
very  close  at  hand.  She  either  sits  in  a  red  chair,  or  there 
is  a  red  shawl  just  at  her  back,  or  a  great  bunch  of  red  roses 
at  her  elbow.  I  am  glad  that  great  window  has  been  put 
up  in  old  Dr.  Templeton's  church  to  William  Lancaster's 
memory,  or  I  am  afraid  it  would  have  been  but  a  small 
one." 

Almost  the  first  sign  that  the  storm,  which,  as  related, 
had  struck  New  York  would  reach  New  Leeds  was  the 
shutting  down  of  the  Wickersham  mines.  The  Clarion 
stated  that  the  shutting  down  was  temporary  and  declared 
that  in  a  very  short  time,  when  the  men  were  brought  to 
reason,  they  would  be  opened  again ;  also  that  the  Great 
Gun  Mine,  which  had  been  flooded,  would  again  be  opened. 

The  mines  belonging  to  Keith's  company  did  not  appear 
for  some  time  to  be  affected ;  but  the  breakers  soon  began 
to  reach  even  the  point  on  which  Keith  had  stood  so  se- 

296 


MRS.  LANCASTER'S  WIDOWHOOD 

curely.  The  first  "roller"  that  came  to  him  was  when 
orders  arrived  to  cut  down  the  force,  and  cut  down  also 
the  wages  of  those  who  were  retained.  This  was  done. 
Letters,  growing  gradually  more  and  more  complaining, 
came  from  the  general  office  in  New  York. 

Fortunately  for  Keith,  Norman  ran  down  at  this  time 
and  looked  over  the  properties  again  for  himself.  He  did 
not  tell  Keith  what  bitter  things  were  being  said  and  that 
his  visit  down  there  was  that  he  might  be  able  to  base  his 
defence  of  Keith  on  facts  in  his  own  knowledge. 

"What  has  become  of  Mrs.  Lancaster?"  asked  Keith, 
casually.  "Is  she  still  abroad?  " 

"No ;  she  came  home  immediately  on  hearing  the  news. 
You  never  saw  any  one  so  changed.  She  has  gone  in  for 
charity." 

Keith  looked  a  trifle  grim. 

"If  you  thought  her  pretty  as  a  girl,  you  ought  to  see  her 
as  a  widow.  She  is  ravishing." 

"You  are  enthusiastic.  I  see  that  Wickersham  has  re 
turned?" 

Norman's  brow  clouded. 

"He'd  better  not  come  back  here,"  said  Keith. 

It  is  a  trite  saying  that  misfortunes  rarely  come  singly,  and 
it  would  not  be  so  trite  if  there  were  not  truth  in  it.  Mis 
fortunes  are  sometimes  like  blackbirds  :  they  come  in  flocks. 

Keith  was  on  his  way  from  his  office  in  the  town  to  the 
mines  one  afternoon,  when,  turning  the  shoulder  of  the  hill 
that  shut  the  opening  of  the  mine  from  view,  he  became 
aware  that  something  unusual  had  occurred.  A  crowd  was 
already  assembled  about  the  mouth  of  the  mine,  above  the 
tipple,  among  them  many  women  ;  and  people  were  hurry 
ing  up  from  all  directions. 

"What  is  it  ?  "  he  demanded  of  the  first  person  he  came  to. 

"Water.  They  have  struck  a  pocket  or  something,  and 
the  drift  over  toward  the  Wickersham  line  is  filling  up." 

"Is  everybody  out?"  Even  as  he  inquired,  Keith  knew 
they  were  not. 

297 


GORDON   KEITH 

"No,  sir  5  all  drowned." 

Keith  knew  this  could  not  be  true.  He  hurried  forward 
and  pushed  his  way  into  the  throng  that  crowded  about  the 
entrance.  A  gasp  of  relief  went  up  as  he  appeared. 

"Ah  !  Here's  the  boss."  It  was  the  expression  of  a  vague 
hope  that  he  might  be  able  to  do  something.  They  gave 
way  at  his  voice  and  stood  back,  many  eyes  turning  on  him 
in  helpless  appeal.  Women,  with  blankets  already  in  hand, 
were  weeping  aloud  ;  children  hanging  to  their  skirts  were 
whimpering  in  vague  recognition  of  disaster  •  men  were 
growling  and  swearing  deeply. 

"Give  way.  Stand  back,  every  one."  The  calm  voice 
and  tone  of  command  had  their  effect,  and  as  a  path  was 
opened  through  the  crowd,  Keith  recognized  a  number  of 
the  men  who  had  been  in  and  had  just  come  out.  They 
were  all  talking  to  groups  about  them.  One  of  them  gave 
him  the  first  intelligent  account  of  the  trouble.  They  were 
working  near  the  entrance  when  they  heard  the  cries  of 
men  farther  in,  and  the  first  thing  they  knew  there  was  a 
rush  of  water  which  poured  down  on  them,  sweeping 
everything  before  it. 

"It  must  have  been  a  river,"  said  one,  in  answer  to  a 
question  from  Keith.  "It  was  rising  a  foot  a  minute.  The 
lights  were  all  put  out,  and  we  just  managed  to  get  out 
in  time." 

According  to  their  estimates,  there  were  about  forty  men 
and  boys  still  in  the  mine,  most  of  them  in  the  gallery  off 
from  the  main  drift.  Keith  was  running  over  in  his  mind 
the  levels.  His  face  was  a  study,  and  the  crowd  about  him 
watched  him  closely,  as  if  to  catch  any  ray  of  hope  that  he 
might  hold  out.  As  he  reflected,  his  face  grew  whiter. 
Down  the  slant  from  the  mine  came  the  roar  of  the  water. 
It  was  a  desperate  chance. 

Half  turning,  he  glanced  at  the  white,  stricken  faces 
about  him. 

"It  is  barely  possible  some  of  the  men  may  still  be  alive. 
There  are  two  elevations.  I  am  going  down  to  see." 

298 


MRS.  LANCASTER'S  WIDOWHOOD 

At  the  words,  the  sound  through  the  crowd  hushed  sud 
denly. 

"Na,  th'  ben't  one  alive,"  said  an  old  miner,  contentiously. 

The  murmur  began  again. 

"I  am  going  down  to  see,"  said  Keith.  "If  one  or  two 
men  will  come  with  me,  it  will  increase  the  chances  of  get 
ting  to  them.  If  not,  I  am  going  alone.  But  I  don't  want 
any  one  who  has  a  family." 

A  dead  silence  fell,  then  three  or  four  young  fellows 
began  to  push  their  way  through  the  crowd,  amid  expostu 
lations  of  some  of  the  women  and  the  urging  of  others. 

Some  of  the  women  seized  them  and  held  on  to  them. 

"There  are  one  or  two  places  where  men  may  have  been 
able  to  keep  their  heads  above  water  if  it  has  not  filled  the 
drift,  and  that  is  what  I  am  going  to  see,"  said  Keith,  pre 
paring  to  descend. 

"My  brother's  down  there  and  I'll  go,"  said  a  young 
light-haired  fellow  with  a  pale  face.  He  belonged  to  the 
night  shift. 

"I  ain't  got  any  family,"  said  a  small,  grizzled  man.  He 
had  a  thin  black  band  on  the  sleeve  of  his  rusty,  brown  coat. 

Several  others  now  came  forward,  amid  mingled  expos 
tulations  and  encouragement ;  but  Keith  took  the  first  two, 
and  they  prepared  to  enter.  The  younger  man  took  off  his 
silver  watch,  with  directions  to  a  friend  to  send  it  to  his 
sister  if  he  did  not  come  back.  The  older  man  said  a  few 
words  to  a  bystander.  They  were  about  a  woman's  grave 
on  the  hillside.  Keith  took  off  his  watch  and  gave  it  to 
one  of  the  men,  with  a  few  words  scribbled  on  a  leaf  from 
a  memorandum-book,  and  the  next  moment  the  three  vol 
unteers,  amid  a  deathly  silence,  entered  the  mine. 

Long  before  they  reached  the  end  of  the  ascent  to  the 
shaft  they  could  hear  the  water  gurgling  and  lapping 
against  the  sides  as  it  whirled  through  the  gallery  below 
them.  As  they  reached  the  water,  Keith  let  himself 
down  into  it.  The  water  took  him  to  about  his  waist  and 
was  rising. 

299 


GORDON   KEITH 

"It  has  not  filled  the  drift  yet,"  he  said,  and  started 
ahead.  He  gave  a  halloo ;  but  there  was  no  sound  in 
answer,  only  the  reverberation  of  his  voice.  The  other 
men  called  to  him  to  wait  and  talk  it  over.  The  strange 
ness  of  the  situation  appalled  them.  It  might  well  have 
awed  a  strong  man ;  but  Keith  waded  on.  The  older  man 
plunged  after  him,  the  younger  clinging  to  the  cage  for  a 
second  in  a  panic.  The  lights  were  out  in  a  moment. 
Wading  and  plunging  forward  through  the  water,  which 
rose  in  places  to  his  neck,  and  feeling  his  way  by  the  sides 
of  the  drift,  Keith  waded  forward  through  the  pitch-dark 
ness.  He  stopped  at  times  to  halloo ;  but  there  was  na 
reply,  only  the  strange  hollow  sound  of  his  own  voice  as  it 
was  thrown  back  on  him,  or  died  almost  before  leaving  his 
throat.  He  had  almost  made  up  his  mind  that  further 
attempt  was  useless  and  that  he  might  as  well  turn  back,, 
when  he  thought  he  heard  a  faint  sound  ahead.  With  an 
other  shout  he  plunged  forward  again,  and  the  next  time 
he  called  he  heard  a  cry  of  joy,  and  he  pushed  ahead 
again,  shouting  to  them  to  come  to  him. 

Keith  found  most  of  the  men  huddled  together  on  the 
first  level,  in  a  state  of  panic.  Some  of  them  were  whim 
pering  and  some  were  praying  fervently,  whilst  a  few  were 
silent,  in  a  sort  of  dazed  bewilderment.  All  who  were 
working  in  that  part  of  the  mine  were  there,  they  said, 
except  three  men,  Bill  Bluffy  and  a  man  named  Hennson 
and  his  boy,  who  had  been  cut  off  in  the  far  end  of  the 
gallery  and  who  must  have  been  drowned  immediately, 
they  told  Keith. 

"They  may  not  be,"  said  Keith.  "There  is  one  point  as 
high  as  this.  I  shall  go  on  and  see." 

The  men  endeavored  to  dissuade  him.  It  was  "a  useless 
risk  of  life,"  they  assured  him  ;  "the  others  must  have  been 
swept  away  immediately.  The  water  had  come  so  sudden. 
Besides,  the  water  was  rising,  and  it  might  even  now  be  too 
late  to  get  out."  But  Keith  was  firm,  and  ordering  them 
back  in  charge  of  the  two  men  who  had  come  in  with  him, 

300 


MKS.  LANCASTER'S  WIDOWHOOD 

he  pushed  on  alone.  He  knew  that  the  water  was  still 
rising,  though,  he  hoped,  slowly.  He  had  no  voice  to  shout 
now,  but  he  prayed  with  all  his  might,  and  that  soothed 
and  helped  him.  Presently  the  water  was  a  little  shallower. 
It  did  not  come  so  high  up  on  him.  He  knew  from  this 
that  he  must  be  reaching  the  upper  level.  Now  and  then 
he  spoke  Bluffy 's  and  Hennson's  names,  lest  in  the  dark 
ness  he  should  pass  them. 

Presently,  as  he  stopped  for  a  second  to  take  breath,  he 
thought  he  heard  another  sound  besides  the  gurgling  of  the 
water  as  it  swirled  about  the  timbers.  He  listened  intently. 

It  was  the  boy's  voice.  "Hold  me  tight,  father.  Don't 
leave  me." 

Then  he  heard  another  voice  urging  him  to  go.  "You 
can't  do  any  good  staying  j  try  it."  But  Hennson  was  re 
fusing. 

"Hold  on.     I  won't  leave  you." 

"Hennson !  Bluffy ! "  shouted  Keith,  or  tried  to  shout, 
for  his  voice  went  nowhere ;  but  his  heart  was  bounding 
now,  and  he  plunged  on.  Presently  he  was  near  enough 
to  catch  their  words.  The  father  was  praying,  and  the  boy 
was  following  him. 

"'Thy  will  be  done  on  earth,  as  it  is  in  heaven,' "  Keith 
heard  him  say. 

"Hennson  ! "  he  cried  again. 

From  the  darkness  he  heard  a  voice. 

"Who  is  that ?     Is  that  any  one ?  " 

"It  is  I,— Mr.  Keith,— Hennson.  Come  quick,  all  of 
you  ;  you  can  get  out.  Cheer  up." 

A  cry  of  joy  went  up. 

"I  can't  leave  my  boy,"  called  the  man. 

"Bring  him  on  your  back,"  said  Keith.  "Come  on, 
Bluffy." 

"I  can't,"  said  Bluffy.     "I'm  hurt.     My  leg  is  broke." 

"God  have  mercy  !  "  cried  Keith,  and  waded  on. 

After  a  moment  more  he  was  up  with  the  man,  feeling 
for  him  in  the  darkness,  and  asking  how  he  was  hurt. 

301 


GORDON   KEITH 

They  told  him  that  the  rush  of  the  water  had  thrown 
him  against  a  timber  and  hurt  his  leg  and  side. 

"Take  the  boy,"  said  Bluffy,  "and  go  on;  leave  me 
here." 

The  boy  began  to  cry. 

"No/'  said  Keith ;  "I  will  take  you,  too :  Hennson  can 
take  the  boy.  Can  you  walk  at  all  f  " 

"I  don't  think  so." 

Keith  made  Hennson  take  the  boy  and  hold  on  to  him 
on  one  side,  and  slipping  his  arm  around  the  injured  man, 
he  lifted  him  and  they  started  back.  He  had  put  new 
courage  into  them,  and  the  force  of  the  current  was  in  their 
favor.  They  passed  the  first  high  level,  where  he  had 
found  the  others.  When  they  reached  a  point  where  the 
water  was  too  deep  for  the  boy,  Keith  made  the  father 
take  him  on  his  shoulder,  and  they  waded  on  through  the 
blackness.  The  water  was  now  almost  up  to  his  chin,  and  he 
grew  so  tired  under  his  burden  that  he  began  to  think  they 
should  never  get  out ;  but  he  fought  against  it  and  kept 
on,  steadying  himself  against  the  timbers.  He  knew  that 
if  he  went  down  it  was  the  end.  Many  thoughts  came  to 
him  of  the  past.  He  banished  them  and  tried  to  speak 
words  of  encouragement,  though  he  could  scarcely  hear 
himself. 

"Shout,"  he  said  hoarsely ;  and  the  boy  shouted,  though 
it  was  somewhat  feeble. 

A  moment  later,  he  gave  a  shout  of  an  entirely  different 
kind. 

"There  is  a  light ! "  he  cried. 

The  sound  revived  Keith's  fainting  energies,  and  he  tried 
to  muster  his  flagging  strength.  The  boy  shouted  again, 
and  in  response  there  came  back,  strangely  flattened,  the 
shrill  cry  of  a  woman.  Keith  staggered  forward  with 
Bluffy,  at  times  holding  himself  up  by  the  side-timbers. 
He  was  conscious  of  a  light  and  of  voices,  but  was  too 
exhausted  to  know  more.  If  he  could  only  keep  the  man 
and  the  boy  above  water  until  assistance  came  !  He  sum 
moned  his  last  atom  of  strength. 

302 


MRS.  LANCASTER'S  WIDOWHOOD 

"Hold  tight  to  the  timbers,  Hennson,"  he  cried ;  "I  am 
going." 

The  rest  was  a  confused  dream.  He  was  conscious  for  a 
moment  of  the  weight  being  lifted  from  him,  and  he  was 
sinking  into  the  water  as  if  into  a  soft  couch.  He  thought 
some  one  clutched  him,  but  he  knew  nothing  more. 

Terpsichore  was  out  on  the  street  when  the  rumor  of  the 
accident  reached  her.  Any  accident  always  came  home  to 
her,  and  she  was  prompt  to  do  what  she  could  to  help,  in 
any  case.  But  this  was  Mr.  Keith's  mine,  and  rumor  had 
it  that  he  was  among  the  lost.  Terpsichore  was  not  attired 
for  such  an  emergency  j  when  she  went  on  the  streets,  she 
still  wore  some  of  her  old  finery,  though  it  was  growing  less 
and  less  of  late.  She  always  acted  quickly.  Calling  to  a 
barkeeper  who  had  come  to  his  front  door  on  hearing  the 
news,  to  bring  her  brandy  immediately,  she  dashed  into  a 
dry-goods  store  near  by  and  got  an  armful  of  blankets,  and 
when  the  clerk,  a  stranger  just  engaged  in  the  store,  made 
some  question  about  charging  them  to  her,  she  tore  off  her 
jewelled  watch  and  almost  flung  it  at  the  man. 

"Take  that,  idiot !  Men  are  dying,"  she  said.  "I  have 
not  time  to  box  your  jaws."  And  snatching  up  the  blan 
kets,  she  ran  out,  stopped  a  passing  buggy,  and  flinging 
them  into  it,  sprang  in  herself.  With  a  nod  of  thanks  to  the 
barkeeper,  who  had  brought  out  several  bottles  of  brandy, 
she  snatched  the  reins  from  the  half-dazed  driver,  and 
heading  the  horse  up  the  street  that  led  out  toward  the 
mine,  she  lashed  him  into  a  gallop.  She  arrived  at  the 
scene  of  the  accident  just  before  the  first  men  rescued  re 
appeared.  She  learned  of  Keith's  effort  to  save  them.  She 
would  have  gone  into  the  mine  herself  had  she  not  been 
restrained.  Just  then  the  men  came  out. 

The  shouts  and  cries  of  joy  that  greeted  so  unexpected  a 
deliverance  drowned  everything  else  for  a  few  moments ; 
but  as  man  after  man  was  met  and  received  half  dazed 
into  the  arms  of  his  family  and  friends,  the  name  of  Keith 
began  to  be  heard  on  all  sides.  One  voice,  however,  was 

303 


GORDON  KEITH 

more  imperative  than  the  others ;  one  figure  pressed  to  the 
front— that  of  the  gayly  dressed  woman  who  had  just  been 
comforting  and  encouraging  the  weeping  women  about  the 
mine  entrance. 

"Where  is  Mr.  Keith?  "  she  demanded  of  man  after  man. 

The  men  explained.  "He  went  on  to  try  and  find  three 
more  men  who  are  down  there— Bluffy  and  Hennson  and 
his  boy." 

"Who  went  with  him?" 

"No  one.     He  went  alone." 

"And  you  men  let  him  go?" 

"We  could  not  help  it.  He  insisted.  We  tried  to  make 
him  come  with  us." 

"You  cowards!"  she  cried,  tearing  off  her  wrap.  "Of 
course,  he  insisted,  for  he  is  a  man.  Had  one  woman  been 
down  there,  she  would  not  have  let  him  go  alone."  She 
sprang  over  the  fencing  rope  as  lightly  as  a  deer,  and 
started  toward  the  entrance.  A  cry  broke  from  the  crowd. 

"She's  going  !     Stop  her  !     She's  crazy  !     Catch  her  ! " 

Several  men  sprang  over  the  rope  and  started  after 
her.  Hearing  them,  Terpsichore  turned.  With  out 
stretched  arms  spread  far  apart  and  blazing  eyes,  she 
faced  them. 

"If  any  man  tries  to  stop  me,  I  will  kill  him  on  the  spot, 
as  God  lives ! "  she  cried,  snatching  up  a  piece  of  iron  bar 
that  lay  near  by.  "I  am  going  to  find  that  man,  dead  or 
alive.  If  there  is  one  of  you  man  enough  to  come  with  me, 
come  on.  If  not,  I  will  go  alone." 

"I  will  go  with  you ! "  A  tall,  sallow-faced  man  who 
had  just  come  up  pushed  through  the  throng  and  overtook 
her.  "You  stay  here  ;  I  will  go."  It  was  Tib  Drummond, 
the  preacher.  He  was  still  panting.  The  girl  hardly 
noticed  him.  She  waved  him  aside  and  dashed  on. 

A  dozen  men  offered  to  go  if  she  would  come  back. 

"No  ;  I  shall  go  with  you,"  she  said ;  and  knowing  that 
every  moment  was  precious,  and  thinking  that  the  only  way 
to  pacify  her  was  to  make  the  attempt,  the  men  yielded, 

304 


MRS.  LANCASTER'S  WIDOWHOOD 

and  a  number  of  them  entered  the  mine  with  her,  the  lank 
preacher  among  them. 

They  had  just  reached  the  bottom  when  the  faint  outline 
of  something  black  was  seen  in  the  glimmer  that  their  lights 
threw  in  the  distance.  Terpy,  with  a  cry,  dashed  forward, 
and  was  just  in  time  to  catch  Keith  as  he  sank  beneath  the 
black  water. 

When  the  rescuing  party  with  their  burdens  reached  the 
surface  once  more,  the  scene  was  one  to  revive  even  a  flag 
ging  heart  ;  but  Keith  and  Bluffy  were  both  too  far  gone 
to  know  anything  of  it. 

The  crowd,  which  up  to  this  time  had  been  buzzing  with 
the  excitement  of  the  reaction  following  the  first  rescue,, 
suddenly  hushed  down  to  an  awed  silence  as  Keith  and 
Bluffy  were  brought  out  and  were  laid  limp  and  unconscious 
on  a  blanket,  which  Terpsichore  had  snatched  from  a  man 
in  the  front  of  the  others.  Many  women  pressed  forward 
to  offer  assistance,  but  the  girl  waved  them  back. 

"  A  doctor  ! "  she  cried,  and  reaching  for  a  brandy-bottle, 
she  pressed  it  first  to  Keith's  lips.  Turning  to  Drummond, 
the  preacher,  who  stood  gaunt  and  dripping  above  her,  she 
cried  fiercely  :  "  Pray,  man  ;  if  you  ever  prayed,  pray  now. 
Pray,  and  if  you  save  'em,  I'll  leave  town.  I  swear  before 
God  I  will.  Tell  Him  so." 

But  the  preacher  needed  no  urging.  Falling  on  his 
knees,  he  prayed  as  possibly  he  had  never  prayed  before. 
In  a  few  moments  Keith  began  to  come  to.  But  Bluffy 
was  still  unconscious,  and  a  half-hour  later  the  Doctor  pro 
nounced  him  past  hope. 

It  was  some  time  before  Keith  was  able  to  rise  from  his 
bed,  and  during  this  period  a  number  of  events  had  taken 
place  affecting  him,  and,  more  or  less,  affecting  New 
Leeds.  Among  these  was  the  sale  of  Mr.  Plume's  paper  to 
a  new  rival  which  had  recently  been  started  in  the  place, 
and  the  departure  of  Mr.  Plume  (to  give  his  own  account 
of  the  matter)  "to  take  a  responsible  position  upon  a  great 

305 


GOKDON  KEITH 

metropolitan  journal."  He  was  not  a  man,  he  said,  "to 
waste  his  divine  talents  in  the  attempt  to  carry  on  his 
shoulders  the  blasted  fortunes  of  a  i  bursted  boom/  when  the 
world  was  pining  for  the  benefit  of  his  ripe  experience."  An 
other  account  of  the  same  matter  was  that  rumor  had  begun 
to  connect  Mr.  Plume's  name  with  the  destruction  of  the 
Wickersham  mine  and  the  consequent  disaster  in  the  Raw- 
son  mine.  His  paper,  with  brazen  effrontery,  had  declared 
that  the  accident  in  the  latter  was  due  to  the  negligence  of 
the  management.  This  was  too  much  for  the  people  of 
New  Leeds  in  their  excited  condition.  Bluffy  was  dead ; 
but  Hennson,  the  man  whom  Keith  had  rescued,  had  stated 
that  they  had  cut  through  into  a  shaft  when  the  water 
broke  in  on  them,  and  an  investigation  having  been  begun, 
not  only  of  this  matter,  but  of  the  previous  explosion  in 
the  Wickersham  mine,  Mr.  Plume  had  sold  out  his  paper 
hastily  and  shaken  the  dust  of  New  Leeds  from  his  feet. 

Keith  knew  nothing  of  this  until  it  was  all  over.  He  was 
very  ill  for  a  time,  and  but  for  the  ministrations  of  Dr. 
Balsam,  who  came  up  from  Ridgely  to  look  after  him,  and 
the  care  of  a  devoted  nurse  in  the  person  of  Terpsichore, 
this  history  might  have  ended  then.  Terpsichore  had,  im 
mediately  after  Keith's  accident,  closed  her  establishment 
and  devoted  herself  to  his  care.  There  were  many  other 
offers  of  similar  service,  for  New  Leeds  was  now  a  consider 
able  town,  and  Keith  might  have  had  a  fair  proportion  of 
the  gentler  sex  to  minister  to  him ;  but  Dr.  Balsam,  to 
whom  Terpsichore  had  telegraphed  immediately  after 
Keith's  rescue,  had,  after  his  first  interview  with  her  in 
the  sick-room,  decided  in  favor  of  the  young  woman. 

"She  has  the  true  instinct,"  said  the  Doctor  to  himself. 
"She  knows  when  to  let  well  enough  alone,  and  holds  her 
tongue." 

Thus,  when  Keith  was  able  to  take  notice  again,  he  found 
himself  in  good  hands. 

A  few  days  after  he  was  able  to  get  up,  Keith  received 
a  telegram  summoning  him  to  New  York  to  meet  the  offi- 

306 


MRS.  LANCASTER'S  WIDOWHOOD 

cers  of  the  company.  As  weak  as  he  was,  he  determined 
to  go,  and,  against  the  protestations  of  doctor  and  nurse,  he 
began  to  make  his  preparations. 

Just  before  Keith  left,  a  visitor  was  announced,  or  rather 
announced  himself,  for  Squire  Rawson  followed  hard  upon 
his  knock  at  the  door.  His  heavy  boots,  he  declared,  "were 
enough  to  let  anybody  know  he  was  around,  and  give  'em 
time  to  stop  anything  they  was  ashamed  o'  doin'." 

The  squire  had  come  over,  as  he  said,  "to  hear  about 
things."  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  seen  Keith  since  the 
accident,  though,  after  he  had  heard  of  it,  he  had  written 
and  invited  Keith  to  come  "and  rest  up  a  bit  at  his  house." 

When  the  old  man  learned  of  the  summons  that  had 
come  to  Keith,  he  relit  his  pipe  and  puffed  a  moment  in 
silence. 

"Reckon  they'll  want  to  know  why  they  ain't  been  a 
realizin'  of  their  dreams  !  "  he  said,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  half- 
shut  eyes.  "Ever  notice,  when  a  man  is  huntin',  if  he  gits 
what  he  aims  at,  it's  himself  ;  but  if  he  misses,  it's  the  blamed 
old  gun?" 

Keith  smiled.     He  had  observed  that  phenomenon. 

"Well,  I  suspicionate  they'll  be  findin'  fault  with  their 
gun.  I  have  been  a-watchin'  o'  the  signs  o'  the  times.  If 
they  do,  don't  you  say  nothin'  to  them  about  it ;  but  I'm 
ready  to  take  back  my  part  of  the  property,  and  I've  got 
a  leetle  money  I  might  even  increase  my  herd  with." 

The  sum  he  mentioned  made  Keith  open  his  eyes. 

"When  hard  times  comes,"  continued  the  old  man,  after 
enjoying  Keith's  surprise,  "I  had  rather  have  my  money 
in  land  than  in  one  of  these  here  banks.  I  has  seen  wild 
cat  money  and  Confederate  money,  and  land  's  land.  I 
don't  know  that  it  is  much  of  a  compliment  to  say  that  I 
has  more  confidence  in  you  than  I  has  in  these  here  men 
what  has  come  down  from  nobody-knows-where  to  open  a 
bank  on  nobody-knows- what." 

Keith  expressed  his  appreciation  of  the  compliment,  but 
thought  that  they  must  have  something  to  bank  on. 

307 


GOKDOST   KEITH 

"Oh,  they've  got  something/7  admitted  the  capitalist. 
"But  you  know  what  it  is.  They  bank  on  brass  and  cre 
dulity.  That's  what  I  calls  it." 

The  old  man's  face  clouded.  "I  had  been  puttin'  that  by 
for  Phrony,"  he  said.  "But  she  didn't  want  it.  My  money 
warn't  good  enough  for  her.  Some  day  she'll  know  better." 

Keith  waited  for  his  humor  to  pass. 

"I  won't  ever  do  nothin'  for  her  ;  but  if  ever  you  see  her, 
I'd  like  you  to  help  her  out  if  she  needs  it,"  he  said  huskily. 

Keith  promised  faithfully  that  he  would. 

That  afternoon  Terpy  knocked  at  his  door,  and  came  in 
with  that  mingled  shyness  and  boldness  which  was  charac 
teristic  of  her. 

Keith  offered  her  a  chair  and  began  to  thank  her  for 
having  saved  his  life. 

"Well,  I  am  always  becoming  indebted  to  you  anew  for 
saving  my  life—" 

"I  didn't  come  for  that,"  declared  the  girl.  "I  didn't 
:save  your  life.  I  just  went  down  to  do  what  I  could  to 
help  you.  You  know  how  that  mine  got  flooded  f  " 

"I  do,"  said  Keith. 

"They  done  it  to  do  you,"  she  said ;  "and  they  made  Bill 
believe  it  was  to  hurt  Wickersham.  Bill's  dead  now,  an' 
I  don't  want  you  to  think  he  had  anything  against  you." 
She  began  to  cry. 

All  this  was  new  to  Keith,  and  he  said  so. 

"Well,  you  won't  say  anything  about  what  I  said  about 
Bill.  J.  Quincy  made  him  think  'twas  against  Wicker- 
.sham,  and  he  was  that  drunk  he  didn't  know  what  a  fool 
they  was  makin'  of  him.— You  are  going  away?"  she  said 
.  suddenly. 

"Oh,  only  for  a  very  little  while— I  am  going  off  about 
a  little  business  for  a  short  time.  I  expect  to  be  back 
very  soon." 

"Ah  !  I  heard— I  am  glad  to  hear  that  you  are  coming 
back."  She  was  manifestly  embarrassed,  and  Keith  was 
wondering  more  and  more  what  she  wanted  of  him.  "I 

308 


MRS.  LANCASTER'S  WIDOWHOOD 

just  wanted  to  say  good-by.  I  am  going  away."  She  was 
fumbling  at  her  wrap.  "And  to  tell  you  I  have  changed  my 
business.  I'm  not  goin'  to  keep  a  dance-house  any  longer." 

"I  am  glad  of  that,"  said  Keith,  and  then  stuck  fast 
again. 

"I  don't  think  a  girl  ought  to  keep  a  dance-house  or  a 
bank?" 

"No  5  I  agree  with  you.     What  are  you  going  to  do? " 

"I  don't  know  ;  I  thought  of  trying  a  milliner.  I  know 
right  smart  about  hats ;  but  I'd  wear  all  the  pretty  ones 
and  give  all  the  ugly  ones  away,"  she  said,  with  a  poor 
little  smile.  "And  it  might  interfere  with  Mrs.  Gaskins, 
and  she  is  a  widder.  So  I  thought  I'd  go  away.  I  thought 
of  being  a  nurse— I  know  a  little  about  that.  I  used  to  be 
about  the  hospital  at  my  old  home,  and  I've  had  some  little 
experience  since."  She  was  evidently  seeking  his  advice. 

"You  saved  my  life,"  said  Keith.  "Dr.  Balsam  says  you 
are  a  born  nurse." 

She  put  this  by  without  comment,  and  Keith  went  on. 

"Where  was  your  home  ?  " 

"  Grofton." 

"Grofton?  You  mean  in  England?  In  the  West 
Country  ?  " 

She  nodded.  "Yes.  I  was  the  girl  the  little  lady  gave 
the  doll  to.  You  were  there.  Don't  you  remember?  I 
ran  away  with  it.  I  have  it  now— a  part  of  it.  They 
broke  it  up  ;  but  I  saved  the  body." 

Keith's  eyes  opened  wide. 

"That  Lois  Huntington  gave  it  to?" 

"Yes.  I  heard  you  were  going  to  be  married?  "  she  said 
suddenly. 

"I !  Married  !  No  !  No  such  good  luck  for  me."  His 
laugh  had  an  unexpected  tone  of  bitterness  in  it.  She  gave 
him  a  searching  glance  in  the  dusk,  and  presently  began 
again  haltingly. 

"I  want  you  to  know  I  am  never  going  back  to  that  any 
more." 

309 


GOKDON   KEITH 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  it." 

"You  were  the  first  to  set  me  to  thinkin'  about  it." 

"I !" 

"Yes  5  I  want  to  live  straight,  and  I'm  goin'  to." 

"I  am  sure  you  are,  and  I  cannot  tell  you  how  glad  I 
am,"  he  said  cordially. 

"Yes,  thankee."  She  was  looking  down?  picking  shyly 
at  the  fringe  on  her  wrap.  "And  I  want  you  to  know 
'twas  you  done  it.  I  have  had  a  hard  life— you  don't  know 
how  hard— ever  since  I  was  a  little  bit  of  a  gal— till  I  run 
away  from  home.  And  then  'twas  harder.  And  they  all 
treated  me 's  if  I  was  just  a— a  dog,  and  the  worst  kind  of 
a  dog.  So  I  lived  like  a  dog.  I  learned  how  to  bite,  and 
then  they  treated  me  some  better,  because  they  found  I 
would  bite  if  they  fooled  with  me.  And  then  I  learned 
what  fools  and  cowards  men  were,  and  I  used  'em.  I  used 
to  love  to  play  'em,  and  I  done  it.  I  used  to  amuse  'em 
for  money  and  hold  'em  off.  But  I  knew  sometime  I'd  die 
like  a  dog  as  I  lived  like  one— and  then  you  came—."  She 
paused  and  looked  away  out  of  the  window,  and  after  a  gulp 
went  on  again :  "They  preached  at  me  for  dancin'.  But 
I  don't  think  there's  any  harm  dancin'.  And  I  love  it 
better'n  anything  else  in  the  worl'." 

"I  do  not,  either,"  said  Keith. 

"You  was  the  only  one  as  treated  me  as  if  I  was— some'n' 
I  warn't.  I  fought  against  you  and  tried  to  drive  you  out, 
but  you  stuck,  and  I  knew  then  I  was  beat.  I  didn't 
know  'twas  you  when  I— made  such  a  fool  of  myself  that 
time-." 

Keith  laughed. 

"Well,  I  certainly  did  not  know  it  was  you." 

"No— I  wanted  you  to  know  that,"  she  went  on  gravely, 
"because— because,  if  I  had,  I  wouldn'  'a'  done  it— for  old 
times'  sake."  She  felt  for  her  handkerchief,  and  not  finding 
it  readily,  suddenly  caught  up  the  bottom  of  her  skirt  and 
wiped  her  eyes  with  it  as  she  might  have  done  when  a 
little  girl. 

310 


MRS.  LANCASTER'S  WIDOWHOOD 

Keith  tried  to  comfort  her  with  words  of  assurance,  the 
tone  of  which  was  at  least  consoling. 

"I  always  was  a  fool  about  crying— an'  I  was  thinkin7 
about  Bill,"  she  said  brokenly.  "Good-by."  She  wrung 
his  hand,  turned,  and  walked  rapidly  out  of  the  room, 
leaving  Keith  with  a  warm  feeling  about  his  heart. 


311 


CHAPTER  XXI 
THE   DIRECTORS'    MEETING 

KEITH  found,  on  his  arrival  in  New  York  to  meet  his 
directors,  that  a  great  change  had  taken  place  in  busi 
ness  circles  since  his  visit  there  when  he  was  getting  up  his 
company. 

Even  Norman,  at  whose  office  Keith  called  immediately 
on  his  arrival,  appeared  more  depressed  than  Keith  had 
ever  imagined  he  could  be.  He  looked  actually  care-worn. 

As  they  started  off  to  attend  the  meeting,  Norman 
warned  Keith  that  the  meeting  might  be  unpleasant  for 
him,  but  urged  him  to  keep  cool,  and  not  mind  too  much 
what  might  be  said  to  him. 

"I  told  you  once,  you  remember,  that  men  are  very  un 
reasonable  when  they  are  losing."  He  smiled  gloomily. 

Keith  told  him  of  old  Rawson's  offer. 

"You  may  need  it,"  said  Norman. 

When  Keith  and  Norman  arrived  at  the  office  of  the 
company,  they  found  the  inner  office  closed.  Norman, 
being  a  director,  entered  at  once,  and  finally  the  door 
opened  and  "Mr.  Keith"  was  invited  in.  As  he  entered, 
a  director  was  showing  two  men  out  of  the  room  by  a  side 
door,  and  Keith  had  a  glimpse  of  the  back  of  one  of  them. 
The  tall,  thin  figure  suggested  to  him  Mr.  J.  Quincy  Plume  ; 
but  he  was  too  well  dressed  to  be  Mr.  Plume,  and  Keith 
put  the  matter  from  his  mind  as  merely  an  odd  resem 
blance.  The  other  person  he  did  not  see. 

Keith's  greeting  was  returned,  as  it  struck  him,  some- 

312 


THE   DIRECTORS'   MEETING 

what  coldly  by  most  of  them.     Only  two  of  the  directors 
shook  hands  with  him. 

It  was  a  meeting  which  Keith  never  forgot.  He  soon 
found  that  he  had  need  of  all  of  his  self-control.  He  was 
cross-examined  by  Mr.  Kestrel.  It  was  evident  that  it  was 
believed  that  he  had  wasted  their  money,  if  he  had  not  done 
worse.  The  director  sat  with  a  newspaper  in  his  lap,  to 
which,  from  time  to  time,  he  appeared  to  refer.  From  the 
line  of  the  questioning,  Keith  soon  recognized  the  source 
of  his  information. 

"You  have  been  misled,"  Keith  said  coldly,  in  reply  to  a 
question.  "I  desire  to  know  the  authority  for  your  state 
ment." 

"I  must  decline,"  was  the  reply.  "I  think  I  may  say 
that  it  is  an  authority  which  is  unimpeachable.  You  ob 
serve  that  it  is  one  who  knows  what  he  is  speaking  of  t " 
He  gave  a  half-glance  about  him  at  his  colleagues. 

"A  spy?"  demanded  Keith,  coldly,  his  eye  fixed  on  the 
other. 

"No,  sir.  A  man  of  position,  a  man  whose  sources  of 
knowledge  even  you  would  not  question.  Why,  this  has 
been  charged  in  the  public  prints  without  denial ! "  he 
added  triumphantly. 

"It  has  been  charged  in  one  paper,"  said  Keith,  "a  paper 
which  every  one  knows  is  for  sale  and  has  been  bought— by 
your  rival." 

"It  is  based  not  only  on  the  statement  of  the  person  to 
whom  I  have  alluded,  but  is  corroborated  by  others." 

"By  what  others?"  inquired  Keith. 

"By  another,"  corrected  Mr.  Kestrel. 

"That  only  proves  that  there  are  two  men  who  are  liars," 
said  Keith,  slowly.  "I  know  but  two  men  who  I  believe 
would  have  been  guilty  of  such  barefaced  and  brazen  false 
hoods.  Shall  I  name  them  ? " 

"If  you  choose." 

"They  are  F.  C.  Wickersham  and  a  hireling  of  his,  Mr. 
J.  Quincy  Plume." 

313 


GORDON   KEITH 

There  was  a  stir  among  the  directors.  Keith  had  named 
both  men.  It  was  a  fortunate  shot. 

"By  Jove  !  Brought  down  a  bird  with  each  barrel,"  said 
Mr.  Yorke,  who  was  one  of  the  directors,  to  another  in  an 
undertone. 

Keith  proceeded  to  give  the  history  of  the  mine  and  of 
its  rival  mine,  the  Wickersham  property. 

During  the  cross-examination  Norman  sat  a  silent  wit 
ness.  Beyond  a  look  of  satisfaction  when  Keith  made  his 
points  clearly  or  countered  on  his  antagonist  with  some 
unanswerable  fact,  he  had  taken  no  part  in  the  colloquy. 
Up  to  this  time  Keith  had  not  referred  to  him  or  even 
looked  at  him,  but  he  glanced  at  him  now,  and  the  expres 
sion  on  his  face  decided  Keith. 

"Mr.  Wentworth,  there,  knows  the  facts.  He  knows 
F.  C.  Wickersham  as  well  as  I  do,  and  he  has  been  on  the 
ground." 

There  was  a  look  of  surprise  on  the  face  of  nearly  every 
one  present.  How  could  he  dare  to  say  it ! 

"Oh,  I  guess  we  all  know  him,"  said  one,  to  relieve  the 
tension. 

Norman  bowed  his  assent. 

Mr.  Kestrel  shifted  his  position. 

"Never  mind  Mr.  Wentworth ;  it's  your  part  in  the 
transaction  that  we  are  after,"  he  said  insolently. 

The  blood  rushed  to  Keith's  face  5  but  a  barely  percep 
tible  glance  from  Norman  helped  him  to  hold  himself  in 
check.  The  director  glanced  down  at  the  newspaper. 

"How  about  that  accident  in  our  mine?  Some  of  us 
have  thought  that  it  was  carelessness  on  the  part  of  the 
local  management.  It  has  been  charged  that  proper  in 
spection  would  have  indicated  that  the  flooding  of  an 
adjacent  mine  should  have  given  warning ;  in  fact,  had 
given  warning."  He  half  glanced  around  at  his  associates, 
and  then  fastened  his  eyes  on  Keith. 

Keith's  eyes  met  his  unflinchingly  and  held  them.  He 
drew  in  his  breath  with  a  sudden  sound,  as  a  man  might 

314 


THE   DIRECTORS'   MEETING 

who  has  received  a  slap  full  in  the  face.  Beyond  this,  there 
was  no  sound.  Keith  sat  for  a  moment  in  silence.  The 
blow  had  dazed  him.  In  the  tumult  of  his  thought,  as  it 
returned,  it  seemed  as  if  the  noise  of  the  stricken  crowd 
was  once  more  about  him,  weeping  women  and  moaning 
men ;  and  he  was  descending  into  the  blackness  of  death. 
Once  more  the  roar  of  that  rushing  water  was  in  his  ears  j  he 
was  once  more  plunging  through  the  darkness ;  once  more 
he  was  being  borne  down  into  its  depths ;  again  he  was 
struggling,  gasping,  floundering  toward  the  light ;  once 
more  he  returned  to  consciousness,  to  find  himself  sur 
rounded  by  eyes  full  of  sympathy— of  devotion.  The  eyes 
changed  suddenly.  The  present  came  back  to  him.  Hostile 
eyes  were  about  him. 

Keith  rose  from  his  chair  slowly,  and  slowly  turned  from 
his  questioner  toward  the  others. 

"Gentlemen,  I  have  nothing  further  to  say  to  you.  I 
have  the  honor  to  resign  my  position  under  you." 

"Resign!"  exclaimed  the  director  who  had  been  badg 
ering  him.  "Resign  your  position!"  He  leaned  back 
in  his  chair  and  laughed. 

Keith  turned  on  him  so  quickly  that  he  pushed  his  chair 
back  as  if  he  were  afraid  he  might  spring  across  the  table 
on  him. 

"Yes.  Resign  ! "  Keith  was  leaning  forward  across  the 
table  now,  resting  his  weight  on  one  hand.  "Anything  to 
terminate  our  association.  I  am  no  longer  in  your  employ, 
Mr.  Kestrel."  His  eyes  had  suddenly  blazed,  and  held  Mr. 
Kestrel's  eyes  unflinchingly.  His  voice  was  calm,  but  had 
the  coldness  of  a  steel  blade. 

There  was  a  movement  among  the  directors.  They 
shifted  uneasily  in  their  chairs,  and  several  of  them  pushed 
them  back.  They  did  not  know  what  might  happen.  Keith 
was  the  incarnation  of  controlled  passion.  Mr.  Kestrel 
seemed  to  shrink  up  within  himself.  Norman  broke  the 
silence. 

"I  do  not  wonder  that  Mr.  Keith  should  feel  aggrieved," 

315 


GORDON   KEITH 

lie  said,  with  feeling.  "I  have  held  off  from  taking  part  in 
this  interview  up  to  the  present,  because  I  promised  to  do 
so,  and  because  I  felt  that  Mr.  Keith  was  abundantly  able 
to  take  care  of  himself ;  but  I  think  that  he  has  been  un 
justly  dealt  with  and  has  been  roughly  handled." 

Keith's  only  answer  was  a  slow  wave  of  the  arm  in  pro 
test  toward  Norman  to  keep  clear  of  the  contest  and  leave 
it  to  him.  He  was  standing  quite  straight  now,  his  eyes 
still  resting  upon  Mr.  Kestrel's  face,  with  a  certain  watch 
fulness  in  them,  as  if  he  were  expecting  him  to  stir  again, 
and  were  ready  to  spring  on  him  should  he  do  so. 

Unheeding  him,  Norman  went  on. 

"I  know  that  much  that  he  says  is  true."  Keith  looked 
at  him  quickly,  his  form  stiffening:  "And  I  believe  that 
all  that  he  says  is  true,"  continued  Norman  ;  "and  I  am  un 
willing  to  stand  by  longer  and  see  this  method  of  procedure 
carried  on." 

Keith  bowed.  There  flashed  across  his  mind  the  picture 
of  a  boy  rushing  up  the  hill  to  his  rescue  as  he  stood  by  a 
rock-pile  on  a  hillside  defending  himself  against  over 
whelming  assailants,  and  his  face  softened. 

"Well,  I  don't  propose  to  be  dictated  to  as  to  how  I 
shall  conduct  my  own  business,"  put  in  Mr.  Kestrel,  in  a 
sneering  voice.  When  the  spell  of  Keith's  gaze  was  lifted 
from  him  he  had  recovered. 

If  Keith  heard  him  now,  he  gave  no  sign  of  it,  nor  was  it 
needed,  for  Norman  turned  upon  him. 

"I  think  you  will  do  whatever  this  board  directs,"  he 
said,  with  almost  as  much  contempt  as  Keith  had  shown. 

He  took  up  the  defence  of  the  management  to  such  good 
purpose  that  a  number  of  the  other  directors  went  over  to 
his  side. 

They  were  willing  to  acquit  Mr.  Keith  of  blame,  they 
said,  and  to  show  their  confidence  in  him.  They  thought  it 
would  be  necessary  to  have  some  one  to  look  after  the 
property  and  prevent  further  loss  until  better  times  should 
come,  and  they  thought  it  would  be  best  to  get  Mr.  Keith 
to  remain  in  charge  for  the  present. 

316 


THE   DIRECTORS'   MEETING 

During  this  time  Keith  had  remained  motionless  and 
silent,  except  to  bow  his  acknowledgments  to  Norman.  He 
received  their  new  expression  of  confidence  in  silence,  until 
the  discussion  had  ceased  and  the  majority  were  on  his  side. 
Then  he  faced  Mr.  Yorke. 

"Gentlemen,"  he  said,  "I  am  obliged  to  you  for  your  ex 
pression  ;  but  it  comes  too  late.  Nothing  on  earth  could 
induce  me  ever  again  to  assume  a  position  in  which  I  could 
be  subjected  to  what  I  have  gone  through  this  morning. 
I  will  never  again  have  any  business  association  with—"  he 
turned  and  looked  at  Mr.  Kestrel— "Mr.  Kestrel,  or  those 
who  have  sustained  him." 

Mr.  Kestrel  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Oh,  as  to  that,"  he  laughed,  "you  need  have  no  trouble. 
I  shall  get  out  as  soon  as  I  can.  I  have  no  more  desire  to 
associate  with  you  than  you  have  with  me.  All  I  want  to 
do  is  to  save  what  you  mis—" 

Keith's  eyes  turned  on  him  quietly. 

"—what  I  was  misled  into  putting  into  your  sink-hole 
down  there.  You  may  remember  that  you  told  me,  when 
I  went  in,  that  you  would  guarantee  me  all  I  put  in."  His 
voice  rose  into  a  sneer. 

"Oh,  no.  None  of  that,  none  of  that ! "  interrupted  Nor 
man,  quickly.  "You  may  remember,  Mr.  Kestrel,—  ?" 

But  Keith  interrupted  him  with  a  wave  of  his  hand. 

"I  do  remember.     I  have  a  good  memory,  Mr.  Kestrel." 

"That  was  all  done  away  with,"  insisted  Norman,  his  arm 
outstretched  toward  Mr.  Kestrel.  "You  remember  that 
an  offer  was  made  you  of  your  input  and  interest,  and  you 
declined  ?  " 

"I  am  speaking  to  him,"  said  Mr.  Kestrel,  not  turning 
his  eyes  from  Keith. 

"I  renew  that  offer  now,"  said  Keith,  coldly. 

"Then  that's  all  right."  Mr.  Kestrel  sat  back  in  his 
chair.  "I  accept  your  proposal,  principal  and  interest." 

Protests  and  murmurs  went  around  the  board,  but  Mr. 
Kestrel  did  not  heed  them.  Leaning  forward,  he  seized  a 
pen,  and  drawing  a  sheet  of  paper  to  him,  began  to  scribble 

317 


GORDON   KEITH 

a  memorandum  of  the  terms,  which,  when  finished,  he 
pushed  across  the  table  to  Keith. 

Keith  took  it  against  Norman's  protest,  and  when  he  had 
read  it,  picked  up  a  pen  and  signed  his  name  firmly. 

"Here,  witness  it,"  said  Mr.  Kestrel  to  his  next  neighbor. 
"If  any  of  the  rest  of  you  want  to  save  your  bones,  you 
had  better  come  in." 

Several  of  the  directors  agreed  with  him. 

Though  Norman  protested,  Keith  accepted  their  pro 
posals,  and  a  paper  was  drawn  up  which  most  of  those 
present  signed.  It  provided  that  a  certain  time  should 
be  given  Keith  in  which  to  raise  money  to  make  good  his 
offer,  and  arrangements  were  made  provisionally  to  wind  up 
the  present  company,  and  to  sell  out  and  transfer  its  rights 
to  a  new  organization.  Some  of  the  directors  prudently 
insisted  on  reserving  the  right  to  withdraw  their  proposals 
should  they  change  their  minds.  It  may  be  stated,  how 
ever,  that  they  had  no  temptation  to  do  so.  Times  rapidly 
grew  worse  instead  of  better. 

But  Keith  had  occasion  to  know  how  sound  was  Squire 
Kawson's  judgment  when,  a  little  later,  another  of  the  re 
current  waves  of  depression  swept  over  the  country,  and 
several  banks  in  New  Leeds  went  down,  among  them  the 
bank  in  which  old  Eawson  had  had  his  money.  The  old 
man  came  up  to  town  to  remind  Keith  of  his  wisdom. 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  of  brass  and  credulity  now?" 
he  demanded. 

"Let  me  know  when  you  begin  to  prophesy  against  me," 
said  Keith,  laughing. 

"'Tain't  no  prophecy.  It's  jest  plain  sense.  Some  folks 
has  it  and  some  hasn't.  When  sense  tells  you  a  thing,  hold 
on  to  it. 

"Well,  you  jest  go  ahead  and  git  things  in  shape,  and 
don't  bother  about  me.  No  use  bein'  in  a  hurry,  neither. 
I  have  observed  that  when  times  gits  bad,  they  generally 
gits  worse.  It's  sorter  like  a  fever ;  you've  got  to  wait  for 
the  crisis  and  jest  kind  o'  nurse  'em  along.  But  I  don't 

318 


THE   DIRECTORS'   MEETING 

reckon  that  coal  is  goin'  to  run  away.  It  has  been  there 
some  time,  accordin'  to  what  that  young  man  used  to  say, 
and  if  it  was  worth  what  they  gin  for  it  a  few  years  ago, 
it's  goin?  to  be  worth  more  a  few  years  hence.  When  a 
wheel  keeps  turnin',  the  bottom's  got  to  come  up  sometime, 
and  if  we  can  stick  we'll  be  there.  I  think  you  and  I  make 
a  pretty  good  team.  You  let  me  furnish  the  ideas  and  you 
do  the  work,  and  we'll  come  out  ahead  o'  some  o'  these 
Yankees  yet.  Jest  hold  your  horses ;  keep  things  in  good 
shape,  and  be  ready  to  start  when  the  horn  blows.  It's 
goin'  to  blow  sometime." 

The  clouds  that  had  begun  to  rest  in  Norman  Went- 
worth's  eyes  and  the  lines  that  had  written  themselves  in 
his  face  were  not  those  of  business  alone.  Fate  had  brought 
him  care  of  a  deeper  and  sadder  kind.  Though  Keith  did 
not  know  it  till  later,  the  little  rift  within  the  lute,  that  he 
had  felt,  but  had  not  understood,  that  first  evening  when  he 
dined  at  Norman's  house,  had  widened,  and  Norman's  life 
was  beginning  to  be  overcast  with  the  saddest  of  all  clouds. 
Miss  Abigail's  keen  intuition  had  discovered  the  flaw. 
Mrs.  Wentworth  had  fallen  a  victim  to  her  folly.  Love  of 
pleasure,  love  of  admiration,  love  of  display,  had  become  a 
part  of  Mrs.  Wentworth's  life,  and  she  was  beginning  to 
reap  the  fruits  of  her  ambition. 

For  a  time  it  was  mighty  amusing  to  her.  To  shop  all 
morning,  make  the  costliest  purchases  j  to  drive  on  the 
avenue  or  in  the  Park  of  an  afternoon  with  the  latest  and 
most  stylish  turnout,  in  the  handsomest  toilet ;  to  give  the 
finest  dinners ;  to  spend  the  evening  in  the  most  expensive 
box  ;  to  cause  men  to  open  their  eyes  with  admiration,  and 
to  make  women  grave  with  envy  :  all  this  gave  her  delight 
for  a  time— so  much  delight  that  she  could  not  forego  it 
even  for  her  husband.  Norman  was  so  occupied  of  late 
that  he  could  not  go  about  with  her  as  much  as  he  had 
done.  His  father's  health  had  failed,  and  then  he  had  died, 
throwing  all  the  business  on  Norman. 

319 


GORDON   KEITH 

Ferdy  Wickersham  had  returned  home  from  abroad  not 
long  before— alone.  Rumor  had  connected  his  name  while 
abroad  with  some  woman— an  unknown  and  very  pretty 
woman  had  "travelled  with  him."  Ferdy,  being  rallied  by 
his  friends  about  it,  shook  his  head.  "Must  have  been  some 
one  else."  Grinnell  Rhodes,  who  had  met  him,  said  she  de 
clared  herself  his  wife.  Ferdy's  denial  was  most  conclusive 
— he  simply  laughed. 

To  Mrs.  Wentworth  he  had  told  a  convincing  tale.  It 
was  a  slander.  Norman  was  against  him,  he  knew,  but 
she,  at  least,  would  believe  he  had  been  maligned. 

Wickersham  had  waited  for  such  a  time  in  the  affairs  of 
Mrs.  Wentworth.  He  had  watched  for  it ;  striven  to  bring 
it  about  in  many  almost  imperceptible  ways  ;  had  tendered 
her  sympathy  ;  had  been  ready  with  help  as  she  needed  it ; 
till  he  began  to  believe  that  he  was  making  some  impres 
sion.  It  was,  of  all  the  games  he  played,  the  dearest  just 
now  to  his  heart.  It  had  a  double  zest.  It  had  appeared 
to  the  world  that  Norman  Wentworth  had  defeated  him. 
He  had  always  defeated  him  —first  as  a  boy,  then  at  college, 
and  later  when  he  had  borne  off  the  prize  for  which  Ferdy 
had  really  striven.  Ferdy  would  now  show  who  was  the 
real  victor.  If  Louise  Caldwell  had  passed  him  by  for  Nor 
man  Wentworth,  he  would  prove  that  he  still  possessed 
her  heart. 

It  was  not  long,  therefore,  before  society  found  a  delight 
ful  topic  of  conversation,— that  silken-clad  portion  of  so 
ciety  which  usually  deals  with  such  topics, — the  increasing 
intimacy  between  Ferdy  Wickersham  and  Mrs.  Wentworth. 

Tales  were  told  of  late  visits ;  of  strolls  in  the  dusk  of 
evenings  on  unfrequented  streets  ;  of  little  suppers  after  the 
opera  ;  of  all  the  small  things  that  deviltry  can  suggest  and 
malignity  distort.  Wickersham  cared  little  for  having  his 
name  associated  with  that  of  any  one,  and  he  was  certainly 
not  going  to  be  more  careful  for  another's  name  than  for 
his  own.  He  had  grown  more  reckless  since  his  return, 
but  it  had  not  injured  him  with  his  set.  It  flattered  his 

320 


THE   DIRECTORS'   MEETING 

pride  to  be  credited  with  the  conquest  of  so  cold  and  unap 
proachable  a  Diana  as  Louise  Wentworth. 

"What  was  more  natural?  "  said  Mrs.  Nailor.  After  all, 
Ferdy  Wickersham  was  her  real  romance,  and  she  was  his, 
notwithstanding  all  the  attentions  he  had  paid  Alice  Yorke. 
"Besides,"  said  the  amiable  lady,  "though  Norman  Went 
worth  undoubtedly  lavishes  large  sums  on  his  wife,  and 
gives  her  the  means  to  gratify  her  extravagant  tastes,  I 
have  observed  that  he  is  seen  quite  as  much  with  Mrs. 
Lancaster  as  with  her,  and  any  woman  of  spirit  will  resent 
this.  You  need  not  tell  me  that  he  would  be  so  complacent 
over  all  that  driving  and  strolling  and  box-giving  that 
Ferdy  does  for  her  if  he  did  not  find  his  divertisement  else 
where." 

Mrs.  Nailor  even  went  to  the  extent  of  rallying  Ferdy  on 
the  subject. 

"You  are  a  naughty  boy.  You  have  no  right  to  go 
around  here  making  women  fall  in  love  with  you  as  you 
do,"  she  said,  with  that  pretended  reproof  which  is  a  real 
encouragement. 

"One  might  suppose  I  was  like  David,  who  slew  his  tens 
of  thousands,"  answered  Ferdy.  "Which  of  my  victims  are 
you  attempting  to  rescue  ?  " 

"You  know?" 

As  Ferdy  shook  his  head,  she  explained  further. 

"I  don't  say  that  it  isn't  natural  she  should  find  you 
more— more— sympathetic  than  a  man  who  is  engrossed 
in  business  when  he  is  not  engrossed  in  dangling  about  a 
pair  of  blue  eyes ;  but  you  ought  not  to  do  it.  Think  of 
her." 

"I  thought  you  objected  to  my  thinking  of  her?"  said 
Mr.  Wickersham,  lightly. 

Mrs.  Nailor  tapped  him  with  her  fan  to  show  her  dis 
pleasure. 

"You  are  so  provoking.     Why  won't  you  be  serious?  " 

"Serious?  I  never  was  more  serious  in  my  life.  Sup 
pose  I  tell  you  I  think  of  her  all  the  time  ?  "  He  looked  at 

321 


GOBDON   KEITH 

her  keenly,  then  broke  into  a  laugh  as  he  read  her  delight 
in  the  speech.  "Don't  you  think  I  am  competent  to  attend 
to  my  own  affairs,  even  if  Louise  Caldwell  is  the  soft  and 
unsophisticated  creature  you  would  make  her  ?  I  am  glad 
you  did  not  feel  it  necessary  to  caution  me  about  her  hus 
band  ?  "  His  eyes  gave  a  flash. 

Mrs.  Nailor  hastened  to  put  herself  right— that  is,  on  the 
side  of  the  one  present,  for  with  her  the  absent  was  always 
in  the  wrong. 

Wickersham  improved  his  opportunities  with  the  ability 
of  a  veteran.  Little  by  little  he  excited  Mrs.  Went  worth's 
jealousy.  Norman,  he  said,  necessarily  saw  a  great  deal  of 
Alice  Lancaster,  for  he  was  her  business  agent.  It  was, 
perhaps,  not  necessary  for  him  to  see  her  every  day,  but  it 
was  natural  that  he  should.  The  arrow  stuck  and  rankled. 
And  later,  at  an  entertainment,  when  she  saw  Norman 
laughing  and  enjoying  himself  in  a  group  of  old  friends, 
among  whom  was  Alice  Lancaster,  Mrs.  Norman  was  on  fire 
with  suspicion,  and  her  attitude  toward  Alice  Lancaster 
changed. 

So,  before  Norman  was  aware  of  it,  he  found  life  com 
pletely  changed  for  him.  As  a  boatman  on  a  strange 
shore  in  the  night-time  drifts  without  knowing  of  it,  he, 
in  the  absorption  of  his  business,  drifted  away  from  his 
old  relation  without  marking  the  process.  His  wife  had 
her  life  and  friends,  and  he  had  his.  He  made  at  times 
an  effort  to  recover  the  old  relation,  but  she  was  too  firmly 
held  in  the  grip  of  the  life  she  had  chosen  for  him  to  get 
her  back. 

His  wife  complained  that  he  was  out  of  sympathy  with 
her,  and  he  could  not  deny  it.  She  resented  this,  and 
charged  him  with  neglecting  her.  No  man  will  stand  such 
a  charge,  and  Norman  defended  himself  hotly. 

"I  do  not  think  it  lies  in  your  mouth  to  make  such  a 
charge,"  he  said,  with  a  flash  in  his  eye.  "I  am  nearly 
always  at  home  when  I  am  not  necessarily  absent.  You 
can  hardly  say  as  much.  I  do  not  think  my  worst  enemy 

322 


THE   DIRECTORS'  MEETING 

would  charge  me  with  that.  Even  Ferdy  Wickersham 
would  not  say  that." 

She  fired  at  the  name. 

"You  are  always  attacking  my  friends,"  she  declared. 
"I  think  they  are  quite  as  good  as  yours." 

Norman  turned  away.  He  looked  gloomily  out  of  the 
window  for  a  moment,  and  then  faced  his  wife  again. 

"Louise,"  he  said  gravely,  "if  I  have  been  hard  and  un 
sympathetic,  I  have  not  meant  to  be.  Why  can't  we  start 
all  over  again  1  You  are  more  than  all  the  rest  of  the  world 
to  me.  I  will  give  up  whatever  you  object  to,  and  you 
give  up  what  I  object  to.  That  is  a  good  way  to  begin." 
His  eyes  had  a  look  of  longing  in  them,  but  Mrs.  Went- 
worth  did  not  respond. 

"You  will  insist  on  my  giving  up  my  friends,"  she  said. 

"Your  friends?  I  do  not  insist  on  your  giving  up  any 
friend  on  earth.  Mrs.  Nailor  and  her  like  are  not  your 
friends.  They  spend  their  time  tearing  to  pieces  the  char 
acters  of  others  when  you  are  present,  and  your  character 
when  you  are  absent.  Wickersham  is  incapable  of  being  a 
friend." 

"You  are  always  so  unjust  to  him,"  said  Mrs.  Wentworth, 
warmly. 

"I  am  not  unjust  to  him.  I  have  known  him  all  my  life, 
and  I  tell  you  he  would  sacrifice  any  one  and  every  one  to 
his  pleasure." 

Mrs.  Wentworth  began  to  defend  him  warmly,  and  so  the 
quarrel  ended  worse  than  it  had  begun. 


323 


CHAPTER   XXII 
MRS.    CREAMER'S   BALL 

.next  few  years  passed  as  the  experience  of  old 
JL  Rawson  had  led  him  to  predict.  Fortunes  went  down  ; 
but  Fortune's  wheel  is  always  turning,  and,  as  the  old 
countryman  said,  "those  that  could  stick  would  come  up 
on  top  again." 

Keith,  however,  had  prospered.  He  had  got  the  Raw- 
son  mine  to  running  again,  and  even  in  the  hardest 
times  had  been  able  to  make  it  pay  expenses.  Other 
properties  had  failed  and  sold  out,  and  had  been  bought 
in  by  Keith's  supporters,  when  Wickersham  once  more 
appeared  in  New  Leeds  affairs.  It  was  rumored  that 
Wickersham  was  going  to  start  again.  Old  Adam  Raw- 
son's  face  grew  dark  at  the  rumor.  He  said  to  Keith  : 

"If  that  young  man  comes  down  here,  it's  him  or  me.  I'm 
an  old  man,  and  I  ain't  got  long  to  live  ;  but  I  want  to  live 
to  meet  him  once.  If  he's  got  any  friends,  they'd  better 
tell  him  not  to  come."  He  sat  glowering  and  puffing  his 
pipe  morosely. 

Keith  tried  to  soothe  him ;  but  the  old  fellow  had 
received  a  wound  that  knew  no  healing. 

"I  know  all  you  say,  and  I'm  much  obliged  to  you ;  but 
I  can't  accept  it.  It's  an  eye  for  an  eye  and  a  tooth  for  a 
tooth  with  me.  He  has  entered  my  home  and  struck  me 
in  the  dark.  Do  you  think  I  done  all  I  have  done  jest 
for  the  money  I  was  makin'  !  No  ;  I  wanted  revenge.  I 
have  set  on  my  porch  of  a  night  and  seen  her  wanderin' 

324 


MRS.    CREAMER'S   BALL 

about  in  them  fureign  cities,  all  alone,  trampin'  the 
streets— trampin',  tramping  trampin' ;  tired,  and,  maybe, 
sick  and  hungry,  not  able  to  ask  them  outlandish  folks 
for  even  a  piece  of  bread— her  that  used  to  set  on  my 
knee  and  hug  me  with  her  little  arms  and  call  me  grand 
dad,  and  claim  all  the  little  calves  for  hers— jest  the  little 
ones  ;  and  that  I've  ridden  many  a  mile  over  the  mountains 
for,  thinkin'  how  she  was  goin'  to  run  out  to  meet  me  when 
I  got  home.  And  now  even  my  old  dog's  dead— died  after 
she  went  away. 

"No  ! "  he  broke  out  fiercely.  "If  he  comes  back  here, 
it's  him  or  me  !  By  the  Lord  !  if  he  comes  back  here,  I'll 
pay  him  the  debt  I  owe  him.  If  she's  his  wife,  I'll  make 
her  a  widow,  and  if  she  ain't,  I'll  revenge  her." 

He  mopped  the  beads  of  sweat  that  had  broken  out  on 
his  brow,  and  without  a  word  stalked  out  of  the  door. 

But  Ferdy  Wickersham  had  no  idea  of  returning  to  New 
Leeds.  He  found  New  York  quite  interesting  enough  for 
him  about  this  time. 

The  breach  between  Norman  and  his  wife  had  grown  of 
late. 

Gossip  divided  the  honors  between  them,  and  some  said 
it  was  on  Ferdy  Wickersham's  account ;  others  declared 
that  it  was  Mrs.  Lancaster  who  had  come  between  them. 
Yet  others  said  it  was  a  matter  of  money— that  Norman 
had  become  tired  of  his  wife's  extravagance  and  had  re 
fused  to  stand  it  any  longer. 

Keith  knew  vaguely  of  the  trouble  between  Norman 
and  his  wife  j  but  he  did  not  know  the  extent  of  it,  and  he 
studiously  kept  up  his  friendly  relations  with  her  as  well 
as  with  Norman.  His  business  took  him  to  New  York 
from  time  to  time,  and  he  was  sensible  that  the  life  there 
was  growing  more  and  more  attractive  for  him.  He  was 
fitting  into  it  too,  and  enjoying  it  more  and  more.  He 
was  like  a  strong  swimmer  who,  used  to  battling  in  heavy 
waves,  grows  stronger  with  the  struggle,  and  finds  ever 
new  enjoyment  and  courage  in  his  endeavor.  He  felt  that 

325 


GORDON   KEITH 

he  was  now  quite  a  man  of  the  world.  He  was  aware  that 
his  point  of  view  had  changed  and  (a  little)  that  he  had 
changed.  As  flattering  as  was  his  growth  in  New  Leeds, 
he  had  a  much  more  infallible  evidence  of  his  success 
in  the  favor  with  which  he  was  being  received  in  New 
York. 

The  favor  that  Mrs.  Lancaster  had  shown  Keith,  and, 
much  more,  old  Mrs.  Wentworth's  friendship,  had  a  marked 
effect  throughout  their  whole  circle  of  acquaintance.  That 
a  man  had  been  invited  to  these  houses  meant  that  he 
must  be  something.  There  were  women  who  owned  large 
houses,  wore  priceless  jewels,  cruised  in  their  own  yachts, 
had  their  own  villas  on  ground  as  valuable  as  that  which 
fronted  the  Roman  Forum  in  old  days,  who  would  almost 
have  licked  the  marble  steps  of  those  mansions  to  be  ad 
mitted  to  sit  at  their  dinner-tables  and  have  their  names 
appear  in  the  Sunday  issues  of  the  newly  established  society 
journals  among  the  blessed  few.  So,  as  soon  as  it  appeared 
that  Gordon  was  not  only  an  acquaintance,  but  a  friend  of 
these  critical  leaders,  women  who  had  looked  over  his  head 
as  they  drove  up  the  avenue,  and  had  just  tucked  their 
chins  and  lowered  their  eyelids  when  he  had  been  pre 
sented,  began  to  give  him  invitations.  Among  these  was 
Mrs.  Nailor.  Truly,  the  world  appeared  warmer  and 
kinder  than  Keith  had  thought. 

To  be  sure,  it  was  at  Mrs.  Lancaster's  that  Mrs.  Nailor 
met  him,  and  Keith  was  manifestly  on  very  friendly  terms 
with  the  pretty  widow.  Even  Mrs.  Yorke,  who  was  pres 
ent  on  the  occasion  with  her  "heart,"  was  impressively 
cordial  to  him.  Mrs.  Nailor  had  no  idea  of  being  left  out. 
She  almost  gushed  with  affection,  as  she  made  a  place  be 
side  her  on  a  divan. 

"You  do  not  come  to  see  all  your  friends,"  she  said,  with 
her  winningest  smile  and  her  most  bird-like  voice.  "You 
appear  to  forget  that  you  have  other  old  friends  in  New 
York  besides  Mrs.  Lancaster  and  Mrs.  Yorke.  Alice  dear, 
you  must  not  be  selfish  and  engross  all  his  time.  You 

326 


MRS.   CREAMER'S   BALL 

must  let  him  come  and  see  me,  at  least,  sometimes.     Yes  ?  " 
This  with  a  peculiarly  innocent  smile  and  tone. 

Keith  declared  that  he  was  in  New  York  very  rarely, 
and  Mrs.  Lancaster,  with  a  slightly  heightened  color,  re 
pudiated  the  idea  that  she  had  anything  to  do  with  his 
movements. 

"Oh,  I  hear  of  you  here  very  often,"  declared  Mrs. 
Nailor,  roguishly.  "I  have  a  little  bird  that  brings  me  all 
the  news  about  my  friends." 

"A  little  bird,  indeed ! "  said  Alice  to  herself,  and  to 
Keith  later.  "I'll  be  bound  she  has  not.  If  she  had  a  bird, 
the  old  cat  would  have  eaten  it." 

"You  are  going  to  the  Creamers'  ball,  of  course?"  pur 
sued  Mrs.  Nailor. 

No,  Keith  said  :  he  was  not  going  ;  he  had  been  in  New 
York  only  two  days,  and,  somehow,  his  advent  had  been 
overlooked.  He  was  always  finding  himself  disappointed 
by  discovering  that  New  York  was  still  a  larger  place  than 
New  Leeds. 

"Oh,  but  you  must  go  !  We  must  get  you  an  invitation, 
mustn't  we,  Alice?"  Mrs.  Nailor  was  always  ready  to 
promise  anything,  provided  she  could  make  her  engage 
ment  in  partnership  and  then  slip  out  and  leave  the  per 
formance  to  her  friend. 

"Why,  yes ;  there  is  not  the  least  trouble  about  getting 
an  invitation.  Mrs.  Nailor  can  get  you  one  easily." 

Keith  looked  acquiescent. 

"No,  my  dear ;  you  write  the  note.  You  know  Mrs. 
Creamer  every  bit  as  well  as  I,"  protested  Mrs.  Nailor, 
"and  I  have  already  asked  for  at  least  a  dozen.  There  are 
Mrs.  Wyndham  and  Lady  Stobbs,  who  were  here  last 
winter  ;  and  that  charming  Lord  Huckster,  who  was  at 
Newport  last  summer ;  and  I  don't  know  how  many  more 
—so  you  will  have  to  get  the  invitation  for  Mr.  Keith." 

Keith,  with  some  amusement,  declared  that  he  did  not 
wish  any  trouble  taken ;  he  had  only  said  he  would  go 
because  Mrs.  Nailor  had  appeared  to  desire  it  so  much. 

327 


GORDON  KEITH 

Next  morning  an  invitation  reached  Keith,— he 
thought  he  knew  through  whose  intervention,— and  he 
accepted  it. 

That  evening,  as  Keith,  about  dusk,  was  going  up  the 
avenue  on  his  way  home,  a  young  girl  passed  him,  walking 
very  briskly.  She  paused  for  a  moment  just  ahead  of  him 
to  give  some  money  to  a  poor  woman  who,  doubled  up  on 
the  pavement  in  a  black  shawl,  was  grinding  out  from  a 
wheezy  little  organ  a  thin,  dirge-like  strain. 

"Good  evening.  I  hope  you  feel  better  to-day,"  Keith 
heard  her  say  in  a  kind  tone,  though  he  lost  all  of  the 
other's  reply  except  the  "God  bless  you." 

She  was  simply  dressed  in  a  plain,  dark  walking-suit, 
and  something  about  her  quick,  elastic  step  and  slim,  trim 
figure  as  she  sailed  along,  looking  neither  to  the  right  nor 
to  the  left,  attracted  his  attention.  Her  head  was  set  on 
her  shoulders  in  a  way  that  gave  her  quite  an  air,  and  as 
she  passed  under  a  lamp  the  light  showed  the  flash  of  a 
fine  profile  and  an  unusual  face.  She  carried  a  parcel  in 
her  hand  that  might  have  been  a  roll  of  music,  and  from 
the  lateness  of  the  hour  Keith  fancied  her  a  shop-girl  on 
her  way  home,  or  possibly  a  music-teacher. 

Stirred  by  the  glimpse  of  the  refined  face,  and  even 
more  by  the  carriage  of  the  little  head  under  the  dainty 
hat,  Keith  quickened  his  pace  to  obtain  another  glance  at 
her.  He  had  almost  overtaken  her  when  she  stopped  in 
front  of  a  well-lighted  window  of  a  music-store.  The  light 
that  fell  on  her  face  revealed  to  him  a  face  of  unusual 
beauty.  Something  about  her  graceful  pose  as,  with  her 
dark  brows  slightly  knitted,  she  bent  forward  and  scanned 
intently  the  pieces  of  music  within,  awakened  old  associa 
tions  in  Keith's  mind,  and  sent  him  back  to  his  boyhood 
at  Elphinstone.  And  under  an  impulse,  which  he  could 
better  justify  to  himself  than  to  her,  he  did  a  very  auda 
cious  and  improper  thing.  Taking  off  his  hat,  he  spoke  to 
her.  She  had  been  so  absorbed  that  for  a  moment  she  did 
not  comprehend  that  it  was  she  he  was  addressing.  Then, 

328 


MKS.   CREAMER'S   BALL 

as  it  came  to  her  that  it  was  she  to  whom  this  stranger 
was  speaking,  she  drew  herself  up  and  gave  him  a  look  of 
such  withering  scorn  that  Keith  felt  himself  shrink.  Next 
second,  with  her  head  high  in  the  air,  she  had  turned  with 
out  a  word  and  sped  up  the  street,  leaving  Keith  feeling 
very  cheap  and  subdued. 

But  that  glance  from  dark  eyes  flashing  with  indigna 
tion  had  filled  Keith  with  a  sensation  to  which  he  had 
long  been  a  stranger.  Something  about  the  simple  dress, 
the  high-bred  face  with  its  fine  scorn ;  something  about 
the  patrician  air  of  mingled  horror  and  contempt,  had 
suddenly  cleaved  through  the  worldly  crust  that  had  been 
encasing  him  for  some  time,  and  reaching  his  better  self, 
awakened  an  emotion  that  he  had  thought  gone  forever. 
It  was  like  a  lightning-flash  in  the  darkness.  He  knew 
that  she  had  entered  his  life.  His  resolution  was  taken 
on  the  instant.  He  would  meet  her,  and  if  she  were  what 
she  looked  to  be— again  Elphinstone  and  his  youth  swept 
into  his  mind.  He  already  was  conscious  of  a  sense  of 
protection ;  he  felt  curiously  that  he  had  the  right  to 
protect  her.  If  he  had  addressed  her,  might  not 
others  do  so?  The  thought  made  his  blood  boil.  He 
almost  wished  that  some  one  would  attempt  it,  that  he 
might  assert  his  right  to  show  her  what  he  was,  and 
thus  retrieve  himself  in  her  eyes.  Besides,  he  must 
know  where  she  lived.  So  he  followed  her  at  a  respect 
ful  distance  till  she  ran  up  the  steps  of  one  of  the  better 
class  of  houses  and  disappeared  within.  He  was  too  far 
off  to  be  able  to  tell  which  house  it  was  that  she  en 
tered,  but  it  was  in  the  same  block  with  Norman  Went- 
worth's  house. 

Keith  walked  the  avenue  that  night  for  a  long  time, 
pondering  how  he  should  find  and  explain  his  conduct  to 
the  young  music- teacher,  for  a  music-teacher  he  had  decided 
she  must  be.  The  next  evening,  too,  he  strolled  for  an 
hour  on  the  avenue,  scanning  from  a  distance  every  fair 
passer-by,  but  he  saw  nothing  of  her. 

329 


GOKDON   KEITH 

Mrs.  Creamer's  balls  were,  as  Norman  had  once  said,  the 
balls  of  the  season.  "Only  the  rich  and  the  noble  were 
expected." 

Mrs.  Creamer's  house  was  one  of  the  great,  new,  brown- 
stone  mansions  which  had  been  built  within  the  past  ten 
years  upon  "the  avenue."  It  had  cost  a  fortune.  Within, 
it  was  so  sumptuous  that  a  special  work  has  been  "gotten 
up,"  printed,  and  published  by  subscription,  of  its  "art 
treasures,"  furniture,  and  upholstery. 

Into  this  palatial  residence— for  flattery  could  not  have 
called  it  a  home— Keith  was  admitted,  along  with  some 
hundreds  of  other  guests. 

To-night  it  was  filled  with,  not  flowers  exactly,  but 
with  floral  decorations  ;  for  the  roses  and  orchids  were  lost 
in  the  designs— garlands,  circles,  and  banks  formed  of  an 
infinite  number  of  flowers. 

Mrs.  Creamer,  a  large,  handsome  woman  with  good  shoul 
ders,  stood  just  inside  the  great  drawing-room.  She  was 
gorgeously  attired  and  shone  with  diamonds  until  the  eyes 
ached  with  her  splendor.  Behind  her  stood  Mr.  Creamer, 
looking  generally  mightily  bored.  Now  and  then  he 
smiled  and  shook  hands  with  the  guests,  at  times  drawing 
a  friend  out  of  the  line  back  into  the  rear  for  a  chat,  then 
relapsing  again  into  indifference  or  gloom. 

Keith  was  presented  to  Mrs.  Creamer.  She  only  nodded 
to  him.  Keith  moved  on.  He  soon  discovered  that  a 
cordial  greeting  to  a  strange  guest  was  no  part  of  the  con 
vention  in  that  society.  One  or  two  acquaintances  spoke 
to  him,  but  he  was  introduced  to  no  one ;  so  he  sauntered 
about  and  entertained  himself  observing  the  people.  The 
women  were  in  their  best,  and  it  was  good. 

Keith  was  passing  from  one  room  to  another  when  he 
became  aware  that  a  man,  who  was  standing  quite  still  in 
the  doorway,  was,  like  himself,  watching  the  crowd.  His 
face  was  turned  away ;  but  something  about  the  compact 
figure  and  firm  chin  was  familiar  to  him.  Keith  moved  to 
take  a  look  at  his  face.  It  was  Dave  Dennison. 

330 


MKS.   CKEAMEK'S   BALL 

He  had  a  twinkle  in  his  eye  as  he  said :  "Didn't  expect 
to  see  me  here  ?  " 

"Didn't  expect  to  see  myself  here/'  said  Keith. 

"I'm  one  of  the  swells  now  "  ;  and  Dave  glanced  down  at 
his  expensive  shirt-front  and  his  evening  suit  with  com 
placency.  "Wouldn't  Jake  give  a  lot  to  have  such  a 
bosom  as  that  t  I  think  I  look  just  as  well  as  some  of 
'em  ?  "  he  queried,  with  a  glance  about  him. 

Keith  thought  so  too.  "You  are  dressed  for  the  part," 
he  said.  Keith's  look  of  interest  inspired  him  to  go 
on. 

"You  see,  'tain't  like  'tis  down  with  us,  where  you  know 
everybody,  and  everything  about  him,  to  the  number  of 
drinks  he  can  carry." 

"Well,  what  do  you  do  here?"  asked  Keith,  who  was 
trying  to  follow  Mr.  Dennison's  calm  eye  as,  from  time  to 
time,  it  swept  the  rooms,  resting  here  and  there  on  a  face 
or  following  a  hand.  He  was  evidently  not  merely  a  guest. 

"Detective." 

"A  detective  !"  exclaimed  Keith. 

Dave  nodded.  "Yes ;  watchin'  the  guests,  to  see  they 
don't  carry  off  each  other.  It  is  the  new  ones  that  puzzle 
us  for  a  while,"  he  added.  "Now,  there  is  a  lady  acting 
very  mysteriously  over  there."  His  eye  swept  over  the 
room  and  then  visited,  in  that  casual  way  it  had,  some  one 
in  the  corner  across  the  room.  "I  don't  just  seem  to  make 
her  out.  She  looks  all  right— but—  ?  " 

Keith  followed  the  glance,  and  the  blood  rushed  to  his 
face  and  then  surged  back  again  to  his  heart,  for  there, 
standing  against  the  wall,  was  the  young  girl  whom  he 
had  spoken  to  on  the  street  a  few  evenings  before,  who 
had  given  him  so  merited  a  rebuff.  She  was  a  patrician- 
looking  creature  and  was  standing  quite  alone,  observing 
the  scene  with  keen  interest.  Her  girlish  figure  was  slim  ; 
her  eyes,  under  straight  dark  brows,  were  beautiful ;  and 
her  mouth  was  almost  perfect.  Her  fresh  face  expressed 
unfeigned  interest,  and  though  generally  grave  as  she 

331 


GOKDON  KEITH 

glanced  about  her,  she  smiled  at  times,  evidently  at  her 
own  thoughts. 

"I  don't  just  make  her  out,"  repeated  Mr.  Dennison, 
softly.  "I  never  saw  her  before,  as  I  remember,  and 
yet—  ?  "  He  looked  at  her  again. 

"Why,  I  do  not  see  that  she  is  acting  at  all  mysteri 
ously,"  said  Keith.  "I  think  she  is  a  music-teacher.  She 
is  about  the  prettiest  girl  in  the  room.  She  may  be  a 
stranger,  like  myself,  as  no  one  is  talking  to  her." 

"Don't  no  stranger  git  in  here,"  said  Mr.  Dennison,  de 
cisively.  "You  see  how  different  she  is  from  the  others. 
Most  of  them  don't  think  about  anything  but  themselves. 
She  ain't  thinkin'  about  herself  at  all ;  she  is  watchin' 
others.  She  may  be  a  reporter— she  appears  mighty  in 
terested  in  clothes." 

"A  reporter ! " 

The  surprise  in  Keith's  tone  amused  his  old  pupil.  "Yes, 
a  sassiety  reporter.  They  have  curious  ways  here.  Why, 
they  pay  money  to  git  themselves  in  the  paper." 

Just  then  so  black  a  look  came  into  his  face  for  a  second 
that  Keith  turned  and  followed  his  glance.  It  rested  on 
Ferdy  Wickersham,  who  was  passing  at  a  little  distance, 
with  Mrs.  Wentworth  on  his  arm. 

"There's  one  I  am  watchin'  on  my  own  account,"  said  the 
detective.  "I'm  comin'  up  with  him,  and  some  day  I'm 
goin'  to  light  on  him."  His  eye  gave  a  flash  and  then  be 
came  as  calm  and  cold  as  usual.  Presently  he  spoke  again  : 

"I  don't  forgit  nothin'— 'pears  like  I  can't  do  it."  His 
voice  had  a  new  subtone  in  it,  which  somehow  sent  Keith's 
memory  back  to  the  past.  "I  don't  forgit  a  kindness,  any 
way,"  he  said,  laying  his  hand  for  a  second  on  Keith's 
arm.  "Well,  see  you  later,  sir."  He  moved  slowly  on. 
Keith  was  glad  that  patient  enemy  was  not  following  him. 

Keith's  inspection  of  the  young  girl  had  inflamed  his 
interest.  It  was  an  unusual  face — high-bred  and  fine. 
Humor  lurked  about  the  corners  of  her  mouth ;  but  reso 
lution  also  might  be  read  there.  And  Keith  knew  how 

332 


MRS.   CREAMER'S   BALL 

those  big,  dark  eyes  could  flash.  And  she  was  manifestly 
having  a  good  time  all  to  herself.  She  was  dressed  much 
more  simply  than  any  other  woman  he  saw,  in  a  plain 
muslin  dress ;  but  she  made  a  charming  picture  as  she  stood 
against  the  wall,  her  dark  eyes  alight  with  interest.  Her 
brown  hair  was  drawn  back  from  a  brow  of  snowy  white 
ness,  and  her  little  head  was  set  on  her  shoulders  in  a  way 
that  recalled  to  Keith  an  old  picture.  She  would  have 
had  an  air  of  distinction  in  any  company.  Here  she  shone 
like  a  jewel. 

Keith's  heart  went  out  to  her.  At  sight  of  her  his 
youth  appeared  to  flood  over  him  again.  Keith  fancied 
that  she  looked  weary,  for  every  now  and  then  she  lifted 
her  head  and  glanced  about  the  rooms  as  though  looking 
for  some  one.  A  sense  of  protection  swept  over  him.  He 
must  meet  her.  But  how  f  She  did  not  appear  to  know 
any  one.  Finally  he  determined  on  a  bold  expedient.  If  he 
succeeded  it  would  give  him  a  chance  to  recover  himself  as 
nothing  else  could ;  if  he  failed  he  could  but  fail.  So  he 
made  his  way  over  to  her.  But  it  was  with  a  beating 
heart. 

"You  look  tired.  Won't  you  let  me  get  you  a  chair?  " 
His  voice  sounded  strange  even  to  himself. 

"No,  thank  you ;  I  am  not  tired."  She  thanked  him 
civilly  enough,  but  scarcely  looked  at  him.  "But  I  should 
like  a  glass  of  water." 

"It  is  the  only  liquid  I  believe  I  cannot  get  you,"  said 
Keith.  "There  are  three  places  where  water  is  scarce : 
the  desert,  a  ball-room,  and  the  other  place  where  Dives 
was." 

She  drew  herself  up  a  little. 

"But  I  will  try,"  he  added,  and  went  off.  On  his  return 
with  a  glass  of  water,  she  took  it. 

As  she  handed  the  glass  back  to  him,  she  glanced  at  him, 
and  he  caught  her  eye.  Her  head  went  up,  and  she  flushed 
to  the  roots  of  her  brown  hair. 

"Oh  !— I  beg  your  pardon  !  I— I— really— I  don't— 

333 


GOBDON  KEITH 

Thank  you  very  much.     I  am  very  sorry."   She  turned 
away  stiffly. 

"Why?"  said  Keith,  flushing  in  spite  of  himself. 
"You  have  done  me  a  favor  in  enabling  me  to  wait 
on  you.  May  I  introduce  myself  ?  And  then  I  will 
get  some  one  to  do  it  in  person— Mrs.  Lancaster  or  Mrs. 
Wentworth.  They  will  vouch  for  me." 

The  girl  looked  up  at  him,  at  first  with  a  hostile  ex 
pression  on  her  face,  which  changed  suddenly  to  one  of 
wonder. 

"Isn't  this  Gordon  Keith?" 

Gordon's  eyes  opened  wide.     How  could  she  know  him  ? 

"Yes." 

"You  don't  know  me?"  Her  eyes  were  dancing  now, 
and  two  dimples  were  flitting  about  her  mouth.  Keith's 
memory  began  to  stir.  She  put  her  head  on  one  side. 

"  'Lois,  if  you'll  kiss  me  I'll  let  you  ride  my  horse,'  "  she 
said  cajolingly. 

"Lois  Huntington !  It  can't  be ! "  exclaimed  Keith, 
delighted.  "You  are  just  so  high."  Keith  measured  a 
height  just  above  his  left  watch-pocket.  "And  you  have 
long  hair  down  your  back." 

With  a  little  twist  she  turned  her  head  and  showed  him 
a  head  of  beautiful  brown  hair  done  up  in  a  Grecian  knot 
just  above  the  nape  of  a  shapely  little  neck. 

"—And  you  have  the  brightest—" 

She  dropped  her  eyes  before  his,  which  were  looking 
right  into  them— though  not  until  she  had  given  a  little 
flash  from  them,  perhaps  to  establish  their  identity. 

"—And  you  used  to  say  I  was  your  sw— " 

"Did  I?"  (this  was  very  demurely  said).  "How  old 
was  I  then?" 

"How  old  are  you  now?  " 

"Eighteen,"  with  a  slight  straightening  of  the  slim 
figure. 

"Impossible ! "  exclaimed  Keith,  enjoying  keenly  the 
picture  she  made. 

334 


MKS.   CKEAMEK'S   BALL 

"All  of  it,"  with  a  flash  of  the  eyes. 

"For  me  you  are  just  all  of  seven  years  old." 

"Do  you  know  who  I  thought  you  were?"  Her  face 
dimpled. 

"Yes ;  a  waiter !  " 

She  nodded  brightly. 

"It  was  my  good  manners.  The  waiters  have  struck  me 
much  this  evening,"  said  Keith. 

She  smiled,  and  the  dimples  appeared  again. 

"That  is  their  business.     They  are  paid  for  it." 

"Oh,  I  see.  Is  that  the  reason  others  are— what  they 
are?  "Well,  I  am  more  than  paid.  My  recompense  is— 
you." 

She  looked  pleased.  "You  are  the  first  person  I  have 
met !  —Did  you  have  any  idea  who  I  was  the  other  even 
ing  ?  "  she  asked  suddenly. 

Keith  would  have  given  five  years  of  his  life  to  be  able 
to  answer  yes.  But  he  said  no.  "  I  only  knew  you  were 
some  one  who  needed  protection,"  he  said,  trying  to  make 
the  best  of  a  bad  situation.  You  are  too  young  to  be  on 
the  street  so  late." 

"So  it  appeared.  I  had  been  out  for  a  walk  to  see  old  Dr. 
Templeton  and  to  get  a  piece  of  music,  and  it  was  later 
than  I  thought." 

"Whom  are  you  here  with?"  inquired  Keith,  to  get 
off  of  delicate  ground.  "Where  are  you  staying?  " 

"With  my  cousin,  Mrs.  Norman  Wentworth.  It  is  my 
first  introduction  into  New  York  life." 

Just  then  there  was  a  movement  toward  the  supper- 
room. 

Keith  suggested  that  they  should  go  and  find  Mrs.  Nor 
man.  Miss  Huntington  said,  however,  she  thought  she 
had  better  remain  where  she  was,  as  Mrs.  Norman  had 
promised  to  come  back. 

"I  hope  she  will  invite  you  to  join  our  party,"  she  said 
naively. 

"If  she  does  not,  I  will  invite  you  both  to  join  mine," 

335 


GOKDON   KEITH 

declared  Keith.  "I  have  no  idea  of  letting  you  escape  for 
another  dozen  years." 

Just  then,  however,  Mrs.  Norman  appeared.  She  was 
with  Ferdy  Wickersham,  who,  on  seeing  Keith,  looked 
away  coldly.  She  smiled,  greatly  surprised  to  find  Keith 
there.  "Why,  where  did  you  two  know  each  other?  " 

They  explained. 

"I  saw  you  were  pleasantly  engaged,  so  I  did  not  think 
it  necessary  to  hasten  back,"  she  said  to  Lois. 

Ferdy  Wickersham  said  something  to  her  in  an  under 
tone,  and  she  held  out  her  hand  to  the  girl. 

"Come,  we  are  to  join  a  party  in  the  supper-room.  We 
shall  see  you  after  supper,  Mr.  Keith  f  " 

Keith  said  he  hoped  so.  He  was  conscious  of  a  sudden 
wave  of  disappointment  sweeping  over  him  as  the  three 
left  him.  The  young  girl  gave  him  a  bright  smile. 

Later,  as  he  passed  by,  he  saw  only  Ferdy  Wickersham 
with  Mrs.  Norman.  Lois  Huntington  was  at  another  table, 
so  Keith  joined  her. 

After  the  supper  there  was  to  be  a  novel  kind  of  en 
tertainment  :  a  sort  of  vaudeville  show  in  which  were  to 
figure  a  palmist,  a  gentleman  set  down  in  the  programme 
with  its  gilt  printing  as  the  "Celebrated  Professor  Cheire- 
man  "  j  several  singers  ;  a  couple  of  acrobatic  performers  j 
and  a  danseuse  :  "Mile.  Terpsichore." 

The  name  struck  Keith  with  something  of  sadness.  It 
recalled  old  associations,  some  of  them  pleasant,  some  of 
them  sad.  And  as  he  stood  near  Lois  Huntington,  on  the 
edge  of  the  throng  that  filled  the  large  apartment  where 
the  stage  had  been  constructed,  during  the  first  three  or 
four  numbers  he  was  rather  more  in  Gumbolt  than  in  that 
gay  company  in  that  brilliant  room. 

"Professor  Cheireman"  had  shown  the  wonders  of  the 
trained  hand  and  the  untrained  mind  in  a  series  of  tricks 
that  would  certainly  be  wonderful  did  not  so  many  men 
perform  them. 

Mile,  de  Voix  performed  hardly  less  wonders  with  her 

336 


MKS.   CREAMER'S  BALL 

voice,  running  up  and  down  the  scale  like  a  squirrel  in  a 
cage,  introducing  trills  into  songs  where  there  were  none, 
and  making  the  simplest  melodies  appear  as  intricate  as 
pieces  of  opera.  The  Burly  stone  Brothers  jumped  over 
and  skipped  under  each  other  in  a  marvellous  and  "abso 
lutely  unrivalled  manner."  And  presently  the  danseuse 
appeared. 

Keith  was  standing  against  the  wall  thinking  of  Terpy 
and  the  old  hall  with  its  paper  hangings  in  Gumbolt,  and 
its  benches  full  of  eager,  jovial  spectators,  when  suddenly 
there  was  a  roll  of  applause,  and  he  found  himself  in  Gum- 
bolt.  From  the  side  on  which  he  stood  walked  out  his  old 
friend,  Terpy  herself.  He  had  not  been  able  to  see  her 
until  she  was  well  out  on  the  stage  and  was  making  her 
bow.  The  next  second  she  began  to  dance. 

After  the  first  greeting  given  her,  a  silence  fell  on  the 
room,  the  best  tribute  they  could  pay  to  her  art,  her  grace, 
her  abandon.  Nothing  so  audacious  had  ever  been  seen 
by  certainly  half  the  assemblage.  Casting  aside  the  old 
tricks  of  the  danseuse,  the  tipping  and  pirouetting  and 
grimacing  for  applause,  the  dancer  seemed  oblivious  of  her 
audience  and  as  though  she  were  trying  to  excel  herself. 
She  swayed  and  swung  and  swept  from  side  to  side  as 
though  on  wings. 

Round  after  round  of  applause  swept  over  the  room. 
Men  were  talking  in  undertones  to  each  other ;  women 
buzzed  behind  their  fans. 

She  stopped,  panting  and  flushed  with  pride,  and  with  a 
certain  scorn  in  her  face  and  mien  glanced  over  the  audi 
ence.  Just  as  she  was  poising  herself  for  another  effort,  her 
eye  reached  the  side  of  the  room  where  Keith  stood  just 
beside  Miss  Huntington.  A  change  passed  over  her  face. 
She  nodded,  hesitated  for  a  second,  and  then  began  again. 
She  failed  to  catch  the  time  of  the  music  and  danced  out  of 
time.  A  titter  came  from  the  rear  of  the  room.  She 
looked  in  that  direction,  and  Keith  did  the  same.  Ferdy 
Wickersham,  with  a  malevolent  gleam  in  his  eye,  was 

337 


GOKDON   KEITH 

laughing.  The  dancer  flushed  deeply,  frowned,  lost  her 
self-possession,  and  stopped.  A  laugh  of  derision  sounded 
at  the  rear. 

"For  shame  !  It  is  shameful !  "  said  Lois  Huntington  in  a 
low  voice  to  Keith. 

"It  is.  The  cowardly  scoundrel ! "  He  turned  and 
scowled  at  Ferdy. 

At  the  sound,  Terpy  took  a  step  toward  the  front,  and 
bending  forward,  swept  the  audience  with  her  flashing 
eyes. 

"Put  that  man  out." 

A  buzz  of  astonishment  and  laughter  greeted  her  out 
break. 

"Cackle,  you  fools  ! " 

She  turned  to  the  musicians. 

"Play  that  again  and  play  it  right,  or  I'll  wring  your 
necks ! " 

She  began  to  dance  again,  and  soon  danced  as  she  had 
done  at  first. 

Applause  was  beginning  again ;  but  at  the  sound  she 
stopped,  looked  over  the  audience  disdainfully,  and  turn 
ing,  walked  coolly  from  the  stage. 

"Who  is  she?  "  "Well,  did  you  ever  see  anything  like 
that ! "  "Well,  I  never  did  ! "  "The  insolent  creature  ! " 
"By  Jove  !  she  can  dance  if  she  chooses  ! "  buzzed  over  the 
room. 

"Good  for  her,"  said  Keith,  his  face  full  of  admiration. 

"Did  you  know  her?  "  asked  Miss  Huntington. 

"Well." 

The  girl  said  nothing,  but  she  stiffened  and  changed 
color  slightly. 

"You  know  her,  too,"  said  Keith. 

"I !     I  do  not." 

"Do  you  remember  once,  when  you  were  a  tot  over 
in  England,  giving  your  doll  to  a  little  dancing-girl?— 
When  your  governess  was  in  such  a  temper  ? " 

Lois  nodded. 

338 


MRS.   CREAMER'S   BALL 

"That  is  she.  She  used  to  live  in  New  Leeds.  She  was 
almost  the  only  woman  in  Gumbolt  when  I  went  there. 
Had  a  man  laughed  at  her  there  then,  he  would  never  have 
left  the  room  alive.  Mr.  Wickersham  tried  it  once,  and 
came  near  getting  his  neck  broken  for  it.  He  is  getting 
even  with  her  now." 

As  the  girl  glanced  up  at  him,  his  face  was  full  of  sup 
pressed  feeling.  A  pang  shot  through  her. 

Just  then  the  entertainment  broke  up  and  the  guests 
began  to  leave.  Mrs.  Wentworth  beckoned  to  Lois. 
Wickersham  was  still  with  her. 

"I  will  not  trust  myself  to  go  within  speaking  distance 
of  him  now,'7  said  Keith ;  "so  I  will  say  good-by,  here." 
He  made  his  adieus  somewhat  hurriedly,  and  moved  off 
as  Mrs.  Wentworth  approached. 

Wickersham,  who,  so  long  as  Keith  remained  with  Miss 
Huntington,  had  kept  aloof,  and  was  about  to  say  good 
night  to  Mrs.  Wentworth,  had,  on  seeing  Keith  turn  away, 
followed  Mrs.  Wentworth. 

Every  one  was  still  chatting  of  the  episode  of  the  young 
virago. 

"Well,  what  did  you  think  of  your  friend's  friend?" 
asked  Wickersham  of  Lois. 

"Of  whom?" 

"Of  your  friend  Mr.  Keith's  young  lady.  She  is  an  old 
flame  of  his,"  he  said,  turning  to  Mrs.  Wentworth  and 
speaking  in  an  undertone,  just  loud  enough  for  Lois  to 
hear.  "They  have  run  her  out  of  New  Leeds,  and  I  think 
he  is  trying  to  force  her  on  the  people  here.  He  has  cheek 
enough  to  do  anything ;  but  I  think  to-night  will  about 
settle  him." 

"I  do  not  know  very  much  about  such  things ;  but  I 
think  she  dances  very  well,"  said  Lois,  with  heightened 
color,  moved  to  defend  the  girl  under  an  instinct  of  oppo 
sition  to  Wickersham. 

"So  your  friend  thinks,  or  thought  some  time  ago,"  said 
Wickersham.  "My  dear  girl,  she  can't  dance  at  all.  She 

339 


GOBDOST  KEITH 

is  simply  a  disreputable  young  woman,  who  has  been  run 
out  of  her  own  town,  as  she  ought  to  be  run  out  of  this,  as 
an  impostor,  if  nothing  else."  He  turned  to  Mrs.  Went- 
worth :  "A  man  who  brought  such  a  woman  to  a  place 
like  this  ought  to  be  kicked  out  of  town." 

"If  you  are  speaking  of  Mr.  Keith,  I  don't  believe  that 
of  him,"  said  Lois,  coldly. 

Wickersham  looked  at  her  for  a  moment.  A  curious 
light  was  in  his  eyes  as  he  said  : 

"I  am  not  referring  to  any  one.  I  am  simply  generaliz 
ing."  He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  turned  away. 

As  Mrs.  Wentworth  and  Lois  entered  their  carriage,  a 
gentleman  was  helping  some  one  into  a  hack  just  behind 
Mrs.  Wentworth's  carriage.  The  light  fell  on  them  at  the 
moment  that  Lois  stepped  forward,  and  she  recognized  Mr. 
Keith  and  the  dancer,  Mile.  Terpsichore.  He  was  handing 
her  in  with  all  the  deference  that  he  would  have  shown 
the  highest  lady  in  the  land. 

Lois  Huntington  drove  home  in  a  maze.  Life  appeared 
to  have  changed  twice  for  her  in  a  single  evening.  Out  of 
that  crowd  of  strangers  had  come  one  who  seemed  to  be  a 
part  of  her  old  life.  They  had  taken  each  other  up  just 
where  they  had  parted.  The  long  breach  in  their  lives 
had  been  bridged.  He  had  seemed  the  old  friend  and 
champion  of  her  childhood,  who,  since  her  aunt  had  re 
vived  her  recollection  of  him,  had  been  a  sort  of  romantic 
hero  in  her  dreams.  Their  meeting  had  been  such  as  she 
had  sometimes  pictured  to  herself  it  would  be.  She  believed 
him  finer,  higher,  than  others.  Then,  suddenly,  she  had 
found  that  the  vision  was  but  an  idol  of  clay.  All  that  her 
aunt  had  said  of  him  had  been  dashed  to  pieces  in  a  trice. 
He  was  not  worthy  of  her  notice.  He  was  not  a  gentle 
man.  He  was  what  Mr.  Wickersham  had  called  him.  He 
had  boasted  to  her  of  his  intimacy  with  a  common  dancing- 
girl.  He  had  left  her  to  fly  to  her  and  escort  her  home. 

As  Keith  had  left  the  house,  Terpsichore  had  come  out 
of  the  side  entrance,  and  they  had  met.  Keith  was  just 

340 


MKS.  CREAMER'S   BALL 

wondering  how  he  could  find  her,  and  he  considered  the 
meeting  a  fortunate  one.  She  was  in  a  state  of  extreme 
agitation.  It  was  the  first  time  that  she  had  under 
taken  to  dance  at  such  an  entertainment.  She  had  refused, 
but  had  been  over-persuaded,  and  she  declared  it  was  all  a 
plot  between  Wickersham  and  her  manager  to  ruin  her. 
She  would  be  even  with  them  both,  if  she  had  to  take  a 
pistol  to  right  her  wrongs. 

Keith  had  little  idea  that  the  chief  motive  of  her  accept 
ance  had  been  the  hope  that  she  might  find  him  among 
the  company.  He  did  what  he  could  to  soothe  her,  and 
having  made  a  promise  to  call  upon  her,  he  bade  her 
good-by,  happily  ignorant  of  the  interpretation  which 
she  who  had  suddenly  sprung  uppermost  in  his  thoughts 
had,  upon  Wickersham's  instigation,  put  upon  his  action. 

Keith  walked  home  with  a  feeling  to  which  he  had  been 
long  a  stranger.  He  was  somehow  happier  than  he  had 
been  in  years.  A  young  girl  had  changed  the  whole 
entertainment  for  him— the  whole  city— almost  his  whole 
outlook  on  life.  He  had  not  felt  this  way  for  years— not 
since  Alice  Yorke  had  darkened  life  for  him.  Could  love 
be  for  him  again  t 

The  dial  appeared  to  have  turned  back  for  him.  He 
felt  younger,  fresher,  more  hopeful.  He  walked  out  into 
the  street  and  tried  to  look  up  at  the  stars.  The  houses 
obscured  them  ;  they  were  hardly  visible.  The  city  streets 
were  no  place  for  stars  and  sentiment.  He  would  go 
through  the  park  and  see  them.  So  he  strolled  along  and 
turned  into  a  park.  The  gas-lamps  shed  a  yellow  glow  on 
the  trees,  making  circles  of  feeble  light  on  the  walks,  and 
the  shadows  lay  deep  on  the  ground.  Most  of  the  benches 
were  vacant ;  but  here  and  there  a  waif  or  a  belated  home- 
goer  sat  in  drowsy  isolation.  The  stars  were  too  dim  even 
from  this  vantage-ground  to  afford  Keith  much  satisfac 
tion.  His  thoughts  flew  back  to  the  mountains  and  the 
great  blue  canopy  overhead,  spangled  with  stars,  and  a 
blue-eyed  girl  amid  pillows  whom  he  used  to  worship.  An 

341 


GORDON   KEITH 

arid  waste  of  years  cut  them  off  from  the  present,  and  his 
thoughts  came  back  to  a  sweet-faced  girl  with  dark  eyes, 
claiming  him  as  her  old  friend.  She  appeared  to  be  the 
old  ideal  rather  than  the  former. 

All  next  day  Keith  thought  of  Lois  Huntington.  He 
wanted  to  go  and  see  her ;  but  he  waited  until  the  day 
after.  He  would  not  appear  too  eager. 

He  called  at  Norman's  office  for  the  pleasure  of  talking 
of  her  ;  but  Norman  was  still  absent.  The  following  after 
noon  he  called  at  Norman's  house.  The  servant  said  Mrs. 
Norman  was  out. 

"Miss  Huntington?'7 

"She  left  this  morning." 

Keith  walked  up  the  street  feeling  rather  blank.  That 
night  he  started  for  the  South.  But  Lois  Huntington  was 
much  in  his  thoughts.  He  wondered  if  life  would  open  for 
him  again.  When  a  man  wonders  about  this,  life  has 
already  opened. 

By  the  time  he  reached  New  Leeds,  he  had  already 
made  up  his  mind  to  write  and  ask  Miss  Abby  for  an  invita 
tion  to  Brookford,  and  he  wrote  his  father  a  full  account 
of  the  girl  he  had  known  as  a  child,  over  which  the  old 
General  beamed. 

He  forgave  people  toward  whom  he  had  hard  feelings. 
The  world  was  better  than  he  had  been  accounting  it.  He 
even  considered  more  leniently  than  he  had  done  Mrs. 
Wentworth's  allowing  Ferdy  Wickersham  to  hang  around 
her.  It  suddenly  flashed  on  him  that,  perhaps,  Ferdy  was 
in  love  with  Lois  Huntington.  Crash !  went  his  kind 
feelings,  his  kind  thoughts.  The  idea  of  Ferdy  making 
love  to  that  pure,  sweet,  innocent  creature  !  It  was  hor 
rible  !  Her  innocence,  her  charming  friendliness,  her 
sweetness,  all  swept  over  him,  and  he  thrilled  with  a  sense 
of  protection. 

Could  he  have  known  what  Wickersham  had  done  to 
poison  her  against  him,  he  would  have  been  yet  more 
enraged.  As  it  was,  Lois  was  at  that  time  back  at  her  old 

342 


MES.  CREAMER'S   BALL 

home ;  but  with  how  different  feelings  from  those  which 
she  had  had  but  a  few  days  before  !  Sometimes  she  hated 
Keith,  or,  at  least,  declared  to  herself  that  she  hated  him  ; 
and  at  others  she  defended  him  against  her  own  charge. 
And  more  and  more  she  truly  hated  Wickersham. 

"So  you  met  Mr.  Keith?  "  said  her  aunt,  abruptly,  a  day 
or  two  after  her  return.  "How  did  you  like  him?  " 

"I  did  not  like  him,"  said  Lois,  briefly,  closing  her  lips 
with  a  snap,  as  if  to  keep  the  blood  out  of  her  cheeks. 

"What !  you  did  not  like  him?  Girls  are  strange  crea 
tures  nowadays.  In  my  time,  a  girl— a  girl  like  you— 
would  have  thought  him  the  very  pink  of  a  man.  I  sup 
pose  you  liked  that  young  Wickersham  better?  "  she  added 
grimly. 

"No,  I  did  not  like  him  either.  But  I  think  Mr.  Keith 
is  perfectly  horrid." 

"Horrid  !  "  The  old  lady's  black  eyes  snapped.  "Oh, 
he  didn't  ask  you  to  dance !  Well,  I  think,  considering 
he  knew  you  when  you  were  a  child,  and  knew  you  were 
my  niece,  he  might—" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  danced  with  him ;  but  he  is  not  very  nice. 
He— ah—  Something  I  saw  prejudiced  me." 

Miss  Abby  was  so  insistent  that  she  should  tell  her  what 
had  happened  that  she  yielded. 

"Well,  I  saw  him  on  the  street  helping  a  woman  into  a 
carriage." 

"A  woman?  And  why  shouldn't  he  help  her  in?  He 
probably  was  the  only  man  you  saw  that  would  do  it,  if 
you  saw  the  men  I  met." 

"A  dis— reputable  woman,"  said  Lois,  slowly. 

"And,  pray,  what  do  you  know  of  disreputable  women  ? 
Not  that  there  are  not  enough  of  them  to  be  seen  ! " 

"Some  one  told  me— and  she  looked  it,"  said  Lois,  blush 
ing.  The  old  lady  unexpectedly  whipped  around  and 
took  her  part  so  warmly  that  Lois  suddenly  found  her 
self  defending  Gordon.  She  could  not  bear  that  others 
should  attack  him,  though  she  took  frequent  occasion  to 

343 


GORDON  KEITH 

tell  herself  that  she  hated  him.  In  fact,  she  hated  him  so 
that  she  wanted  to  see  him  to  show  him  how  severe  she 
would  be. 

The  occasion  might  have  come  sooner  than  she  expected ; 
but  alas  !  Fate  was  unkind. 

Keith  was  not  conscious  until  he  found  that  Lois  Hunt- 
ington  had  left  town  how  much  he  had  thought  of  her. 
Her  absence  appeared  suddenly  to  have  emptied  the  city. 
By  the  time  he  had  reached  his  room  he  had  determined 
to  follow  her  home.  That  rift  of  sunshine  which  had  en 
tered  his  life  should  not  be  shut  out  again.  He  sat  down 
and  wrote  to  her  :  a  friendly  letter,  expressing  warmly  his 
pleasure  at  having  met  her,  picturing  jocularly  his  disap 
pointment  at  having  failed  to  find  her.  He  made  a  single 
allusion  to  the  Terpsichore  episode.  He  had  done  what  he 
could,  he  said,  to  soothe  his  friend's  ruffled  feelings ;  but, 
though  he  thought  he  had  some  influence  with  her,  he 
could  not  boast  of  having  had  much  success  in  this. 

In  the  light  in  which  Lois  read  this  letter,  the  allusion 
to  the  dancing-girl  outweighed  all  the  rest,  and  though  her 
heart  had  given  a  leap  when  she  first  saw  that  she  had  a 
letter  from  Keith,  when  she  laid  it  down  her  feeling  had 
changed.  She  would  show  him  that  she  was  not  a  mere 
country  chit  to  be  treated  as  he  had  treated  her.  His 
"friend"  indeed! 

When  Keith,  to  his  surprise,  received  no  reply  to  his  let 
ter,  he  wrote  again  more  briefly,  asking  if  his  former  letter 
had  been  received ;  but  this  shared  the  fate  of  the  first. 

Meantime  Lois  had  gone  off  to  visit  a  friend.  Her  mind 
was  not  quite  as  easy  as  it  should  have  been.  She  felt  that 
if  she  had  it  to  go  over,  she  would  do  just  the  same  thing ; 
but  she  began  to  fancy  excuses  for  Keith.  She  even  hunted 
up  the  letters  he  had  written  her  as  a  boy. 

It  is  probable  that  Lois's  failure  to  write  did  more  to 
raise  her  in  Keith's  estimation  and  fix  her  image  in  his 
mind  than  anything  else  she  could  have  done.  Keith  knew 
that  something  untoward  had  taken  place,  but  what  it  was 

344 


MRS.   CREAMER'S   BALL 

he  could  not  conceive.  At  least,  however,  it  proved  to  him 
that  Lois  Huntington  was  different  from  some  of  the  young 
women  he  had  met  of  late.  So  he  sat  down  and  wrote  to 
Miss  Brooke,  saying  that  he  was  going  abroad  on  a  matter 
of  importance,  and  asking  leave  to  run  down  and  spend 
Sunday  with  them  before  he  left.  Miss  Brooke's  reply 
nearly  took  his  breath  away.  She  not  only  refused  his  re 
quest,  but  intimated  that  there  was  a  good  reason  why  his 
former  letters  had  not  been  acknowledged  and  why  he 
would  not  be  received  by  her. 

It  was  rather  incoherent,  but  it  had  something  to  do  with 
"inexplicable  conduct."  On  this  Keith  wrote  Miss  Brooke, 
requesting  a  more  explicit  charge  and  demanding  an  oppor 
tunity  to  defend  himself.  Still  he  received  no  reply  j  and, 
angry  that  he  had  written,  he  took  no  further  steps 
about  it. 

By  the  time  Lois  reached  home  she  had  determined  to 
answer  his  letter.  She  would  write  him  a  severe  reply. 

Miss  Abby,  however,  announced  to  Lois,  the  day  of  her 
return,  that  Mr.  Keith  had  written  asking  her  permission 
to  come  down  and  see  them.  The  blood  sprang  into 
Lois's  face,  and  if  Miss  Abby  had  had  on  her  spectacles 
at  that  moment,  she  must  have  read  the  tale  it  told. 

"Oh,  he  did!  And  what  —  ?"  She  gave  a  swallow  to 
restrain  her  impatience.  "What  did  you  say  to  him,  Aunt 
Abby?  Have  you  answered  the  letter?"  This  was  very 
demurely  said. 

"Yes.  Of  course,  I  wrote  him  not  to  come.  I  preferred 
that  he  should  not  come." 

Could  she  have  but  seen  Lois's  face  ! 

"Oh,  you  did!" 

"Yes.  I  want  no  hypocrites  around  me."  Her  head 
was  up  and  her  cap  was  bristling.  "I  came  very  near 
telling  him  so,  too.  I  told  him  that  I  had  it  from  good 
authority  that  he  had  not  behaved  in  altogether  the  most 
gentlemanly  way— consorting  openly  with  a  hussy  on  the 
street !  I  think  he  knows  whom  I  referred  to." 

345 


GOEDON   KEITH 

"But,  Aunt  Abby,  I  do  not  know  that  she  was.  I  only 
heard  she  was,"  defended  Lois. 

"Who  told  you?" 

"Mr.  Wickersham." 

"Well,  he  knows,"  said  Miss  Abigail,  with  decision. 
"Though  I  think  he  had  very  little  to  do  to  discuss  such 
matters  with  you." 

"But,  Aunt  Abby,  I  think  you  had  better  have  let  him 
come.  We  could  have  shown  him  our  disapproval  in  our 
manner.  And  possibly  he  might  have  some  explanation  1 " 

"I  guess  he  won't  make  any  mistake  about  that.  The 
hypocrite !  To  sit  up  and  talk  to  me  as  if  he  were  a 
bishop !  I  have  no  doubt  he  would  have  explanation 
enough.  They  always  do." 


346 


CHAPTER   XXIII 
GENERAL   KEITH  VISITS  STRANGE   LANDS 

JUST  then  the  wheel  turned.  Interest  was  awaking  in 
England  in  American  enterprises,  and,  fortunately  for 
Keith,  he  had  friends  on  that  side. 

Grinnell  Rhodes  now  lived  in  England,  dancing  atten 
dance  on  his  wife,  the  daughter  of  Mr.  Creamer  of  Creamer, 
Crustback  &  Company,  who  was  aspiring  to  be  in  the  fash 
ionable  set  there. 

Matheson,  the  former  agent  of  the  Wickershams,  with 
whom  Ferdy  had  quarrelled,  had  gone  back  to  England, 
and  had  acquired  a  reputation  as  an  expert. 

By  one  of  the  fortuitous  happenings  so  hard  to  account 
for,  about  this  time  Keith  wrote  to  Rhodes,  and  Rhodes 
consulted  Matheson,  who  knew  the  properties.  Ferdy  had 
incurred  the  Scotchman's  implacable  hate,  and  the  latter 
was  urged  on  now  by  a  double  motive.  To  Rhodes,  who  was 
bored  to  death  with  the  life  he  was  leading,  the  story  told 
by  the  Wickershams'  old  superintendent  was  like  a  trumpet 
to  a  war-horse. 

Out  of  the  correspondence  with  Rhodes  grew  a  suggestion 
to  Keith  to  come  over  and  try  to  place  the  Rawson  proper 
ties  with  an  English  syndicate.  Keith  had,  moreover,  a 
further  reason  for  going.  He  had  not  recovered  from  the 
blow  of  Miss  Brooke's  refusal  to  let  him  visit  Lois.  He 
knew  that  in  some  way  it  was  connected  with  his  attention 
to  Terpsichore  ;  he  knew  that  there  was  a  misunderstanding, 
and  felt  that  Wickersham  was  somehow  connected  with 

347 


GOBDON  KEITH 

it.  But  he  was  too  proud  to  make  any  further  attempt  to 
explain  it. 

Accordingly,  armed  with  the  necessary  papers  and  pow 
ers,  he  arranged  to  go  to  England.  He  had  control  of  and 
options  on  lands  which  were  estimated  to  be  worth  several 
millions  of  dollars  at  any  fair  valuation. 

Keith  had  long  been  trying  to  persuade  his  father  to 
accompany  him  to  New  York  on  some  of  his  visits ;  but 
the  old  gentleman  had  never  been  able  to  make  up  his 
mind  to  do  so. 

"I  have  grown  too  old  to  travel  in  strange  lands,"  he 
said.  "I  tried  to  get  there  once,  but  they  stopped  me  just 
in  sight  of  a  stone  fence  on  the  farther  slope  beyond  Get 
tysburg."  A  faint  flash  glittered  in  his  quiet  eyes.  "I 
think  I  had  better  restrain  my  ambition  now  to  migrations 
from  the  blue  bed  to  the  brown,  and  confine  my  travels  to 
<  the  realms  of  gold'!" 

Now,  after  much  urging,  as  Gordon  was  about  to  go  abroad 
to  try  and  place  the  Bawson  properties  there,  the  General 
consented  to  go  to  New  York  and  see  him  off.  It  happened 
that  Gordon  was  called  to  New  York  on  business  a  day  or 
two  before  his  father  was  ready  to  go.  So  he  exacted  a 
promise  that  he  would  follow  him,  and  went  on  ahead. 
Though  General  Keith  would  have  liked  to  back  out 
at  the  last  moment,  as  he  had  given  his  word,  he  kept 
it.  He  wrote  his  son  that  he  must  not  undertake  to 
meet  him,  as  he  could  not  tell  by  what  train  he  should 
arrive. 

"I  shall  travel  slowly,"  he  said,  "for  I  wish  to  call  by  and 
see  one  or  two  old  friends  on  my  way,  whom  I  have  not 
seen  for  years." 

The  fact  was  that  he  wished  to  see  the  child  of  his 
friend,  General  Huntington,  and  determined  to  avail 
himself  of  this  opportunity  to  call  by  and  visit  her.  Gor 
don's  letter  about  her  had  opened  a  new  vista  in  life. 

The  General  found  Brookford  a  pleasant  village,  lying  on 
the  eastern  slope  of  the  Piedmont,  and  having  written  to  ask 

348 


GENERAL  KEITH  VISITS   STRANGE  LANDS 

permission  to  call  and  pay  his  respects,  he  was  graciously  re 
ceived  by  Miss  Abby,  and  more  than  graciously  received 
by  her  niece.  Miss  Lois  would  probably  have  met  any 
visitor  at  the  train  j  but  she  might  not  have  had  so  pal 
pitating  a  heart  and  so  rich  a  color  in  meeting  many  a 
young  man. 

Few  things  captivate  a  person  more  than  to  be  received 
with  real  cordiality  by  a  friend  immediately  on  alighting 
at  a  strange  station  from  a  train  full  of  strangers.  But  when 
the  traveller  is  an  old  and  somewhat  unsophisticated  man, 
and  when  the  friend  is  a  young  and  very  pretty  girl,  and 
when,  after  a  single  look,  she  throws  her  arms  around  his 
neck  and  kisses  him,  the  capture  is  likely  to  be  as  complete 
as  any  that  could  take  place  in  life.  When  Lois  Hunting- 
ton,  after  asking  about  his  baggage,  and  exclaiming  because 
he  had  sent  his  trunk  on  to  New  York  and  had  brought 
only  a  valise,  as  if  he  were  only  stopping  off  between  trains, 
finally  settled  herself  down  beside  the  General  and  took 
the  reins  of  the  little  vehicle  that  she  had  come  in,  there 
was,  perhaps,  not  a  more  pleased  old  gentleman  in  the  world 
than  the  one  who  sat  beside  her. 

"How  you  have  grown ! "  he  said,  gazing  at  her  with 
admiration.  "Somehow,  I  always  thought  of  you  as  a  little 
girl— a  very  pretty  little  girl." 

She  thought  of  what  his  son  had  said  at  their  meeting  at 
the  ball. 

"But  you  know  one  must  grow  some,  and  it  has  been 
eleven  years  since  then.  Think  how  long  that  has  been  ! " 

"Eleven  years!  Does  that  appear  so  long  to  you?" 
said  the  old  man,  smiling.  "So  it  is  in  our  youth.  Gor 
don  wrote  me  of  his  meeting  you  and  of  how  you  had 
changed." 

I  wonder  what  he  meant  by  that,  said  Lois  to  herself, 
the  color  mounting  to  her  cheek.  "He  thought  I  had 
changed,  did  he  ?  "  she  asked  tentatively,  after  a  moment, 
a  trace  of  grimness  stealing  into  her  face,  where  it  lay  like 
a  little  cloud  in  May. 

349 


GOKDON   KEITH 

"Yes ;  he  hardly  knew  you.  You  see,  he  did  not  have 
the  greeting  that  I  got." 

"I  should  think  not!"  exclaimed  Lois.  "If  he  had,  I 
don't  know  what  he  might  have  thought ! "  She  grew 
as  grave  as  she  could. 

"He  said  you  were  the  sweetest  and  prettiest  girl  there, 
and  that  all  the  beauty  of  New  York  was  there,  even  the 
beautiful  Mrs.— what  is  her  name?  She  was  Miss  Yorke." 

Lois's  face  relaxed  suddenly  with  an  effect  of  sunshine 
breaking  through  a  cloud. 

"Did  he  say  that?"  she  exclaimed. 

"He  did,  and  more.  He  is  a  young  man  of  some  discern 
ment,"  observed  the  old  fellow,  with  a  chuckle  of  gratifi 
cation. 

"Oh,  but  he  was  only  blinding  you.  He  is  in  love  with 
Mrs.  Lancaster." 

"Not  he." 

But  Lois  protested  guilefully  that  he  was. 

A  little  later  she  asked  the  General : 

"Did  you  ever  hear  of  any  one  in  New  Leeds  who  was 
named  Terpsichore  ?  " 

"Terpsichore?  "  Of  course.  Everyone  knows  her  there. 
I  never  saw  her  until  she  became  a  nurse,  when  she  was 
nursing  my  son.  She  saved  his  life,  you  know?  " 

"Saved  his  life ! "  Her  face  had  grown  almost  grim. 
"No,  I  never  heard  of  it.  Tell  me  about  it." 

"Saved  his  life  twice,  indeed,"  said  the  old  General.  "She 
lias  had  a  sad  past,  but  she  is  a  noble  woman."  And  un 
heeding  Lois's  little  sniff,  he  told  the  whole  story  of  Terp 
sichore,  and  the  brave  part  she  had  played.  Spurred  on 
by  his  feeling,  he  told  it  well,  no  less  than  did  he  the  part 
that  Keith  had  played.  When  he  was  through,  there  had 
been  tears  in  Lois's  eyes,  and  her  bosom  was  still  heaving. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said  simply,  and  the  rest  of  the  drive 
was  in  silence. 

When  General  Keith  left  Brookford  he  was  almost  as 
much  in  love  with  his  young  hostess  as  his  son  could  have 

350 


GENERAL  KEITH  VISITS  STRANGE   LANDS 

been,  and  all  the  rest  of  his  journey  he  was  dreaming  of 
what  life  might  become  if  Gordon  and  she  would  but  take  a 
fancy  to  each  other,  and  once  more  return  to  the  old  place. 
It  would  be  like  turning  back  the  years  and  reversing  the 
consequences  of  the  war. 

The  General,  on  his  arrival  in  New  York,  was  full  of  his 
visit  to  Brookford  and  of  Lois.  "There  is  a  girl  after  my 
own  heart,"  he  declared  to  Gordon,  with  enthusiasm.  "Why 
don't  you  go  down  there  and  get  that  girl?" 

Gordon  put  the  question  aside  with  a  somewhat  grim 
look.  He  was  very  busy,  he  said.  His  plans  were  just 
ripening,  and  he  had  no  time  to  think  about  marrying. 
Besides,  "a  green  country  girl"  was  not  the  most  prom 
ising  wife.  There  were  many  other  women  who,  etc.,  etc. 

"Many  other  women  ! "  exclaimed  the  General.  "There 
may  be  ;  but  I  have  not  seen  them  lately.  As  to  '  a  green 
country  girl 7— why,  they  make  the  best  wives  in  the  world 
if  you  get  the  right  kind.  What  do  you  want?  One  of 
these  sophisticated,  fashionable,  strong-minded  women— 
a  woman's-rights  woman?  Heaven  forbid  !  When  a  gen 
tleman  marries,  he  wants  a  lady  and  he  wants  a  wife,  a 
woman  to  love  him ;  a  lady  to  preside  over  his  home,  not 
over  a  woman's  meeting." 

Gordon  quite  agreed  with  him  as  to  the  principle  j  but 
he  did  not  know  about  the  instance  cited. 

"Why,  I  thought  you  had  more  discernment,"  said  the 
old  gentleman.  "She  is  the  sweetest  creature  I  have  seen 
in  a  long  time.  She  has  both  sense  and  sensibility.  If  I 
were  forty  years  younger,  I  should  not  be  suggesting  her  to 
you,  sir.  I  should  be  on  my  knees  to  her  for  myself." 
And  the  old  fellow  buttoned  his  coat,  straightened  his 
figure,  and  looked  quite  spirited  and  young. 

At  the  club,  where  Gordon  introduced  him,  his  father 
soon  became  quite  a  toast.  Half  the  habitues  of  the  "big 
room"  came  to  know  him,  and  he  was  nearly  always  sur 
rounded  by  a  group  listening  to  his  quaint  observations  of 

351 


GORDON   KEITH 

life,  his  stories  of  old  times,  his  anecdotes,  his  quotations 
from  Plutarch  or  from  "Dr.  Johnson,  sir." 

An  evening  or  two  after  his  appearance  at  the  club, 
Norman  "Wentworth  came  in,  and  when  the  first  greetings 
were  over,  General  Keith  inquired  warmly  after  his  wife. 

"Pray  present  my  compliments  to  her.  I  have  never 
had  the  honor  of  meeting  her,  sir,  but  I  have  heard  of  her 
charms  from  my  son,  and  I  promise  myself  the  pleasure  of 
calling  upon  her  as  soon  as  I  have  called  on  your  mother, 
which  I  am  looking  forward  to  doing  this  evening." 

Norman's  countenance  changed  a  little  at  the  unexpected 
words,  for  half  a  dozen  men  were  around.  When,  how 
ever,  he  spoke  it  was  in  a  very  natural  voice. 

"Yes,  my  mother  is  expecting  you,"  he  said  quietly. 
Mrs.  Wentworth  also  would,  he  said,  be  very  glad  to 
see  him.  Her  day  was  Thursday,  but  if  General  Keith 
thought  of  calling  at  any  other  time,  and  would  be  good 
enough  to  let  him  know,  he  thought  he  could  guarantee 
her  being  at  home.  He  strolled  away. 

"By  Jove !  he  did  it  well,"  said  one  of  the  General's 
other  acquaintances  when  Norman  was  out  of  ear-shot. 

"You  know,  he  and  his  wife  have  quarrelled,"  explained 
Stirling  to  the  astonished  General. 

"Great  Heavens  ! "  The  old  gentleman  looked  inex 
pressibly  shocked. 

"Yes— Wickersham." 

"That  scoundrel ! " 

"Yes ;  he  is  the  devil  with  the  women." 

Next  evening,  as  the  General  sat  with  Stirling  among  a 
group,  sipping  his  toddy,  some  one  approached  behind  him. 

Stirling,  who  had  become  a  great  friend  of  the  General's, 
greeted  the  newcomer. 

"Hello,  Ferdy  !  Come  around  ;  let  me  introduce  you  to 
General  Keith,  Gordon  Keith's  father." 

The  General,  with  a  pleasant  smile  on  his  face,  rose  from 
his  chair  and  turned  to  greet  the  newcomer.  As  he  did 
so  he  faced  Ferdy  Wickersham,  who  bowed  coldly.  The 

352 


GENERAL  KEITH  VISITS   STRANGE   LANDS 

old  gentleman  stiffened,  put  his  hand  behind  his  back, 
and  with  uplifted  head  looked  him  full  in  the  eyes  for  a 
second,  and  then  turned  his  back  on  him. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Stirling,  for  declining  to  recog 
nize  any  one  whom  you  are  good  enough  to  wish  to  intro 
duce  to  me,  but  that  man  I  must  decline  to  recognize.  He 
is  not  a  gentleman." 

"I  doubt  if  you  know  one,"  said  Ferdy,  with  a  shrug,  as 
he  strolled  away  with  affected  indifference.  But  a  dozen 
men  had  seen  the  cut. 

"I  guess  you  are  right  enough  about  that,  General,'7  said 
one  of  them. 

When  the  General  reflected  on  what  he  had  done,  he  was 
overwhelmed  with  remorse.  He  apologized  profusely  to 
Stirling  for  having  committed  such  a  solecism. 

"I  am  nothing  but  an  irascible  old  idiot,  sir,  and  I  hope 
you  will  excuse  my  constitutional  weakness,  but  I  really 
could  not  recognize  that  man." 

Stirling's  inveterate  amiability  soon  set  him  at  ease 
again. 

"It  is  well  for  Wickersham  to  hear  the  truth  now  and 
then,"  he  said.  "I  guess  he  hears  it  rarely  enough.  Most 
people  feed  him  on  lies." 

Some  others  appeared  to  take  the  same  view  of  the  mat 
ter,  for  the  General  was  more  popular  than  ever. 

Gordon  found  a  new  zest  in  showing  his  father  about  the 
city.  Everything  astonished  him.  He  saw  the  world  with 
the  eyes  of  a  child.  The  streets,  the  crowds,  the  shop- 
windows,  the  shimmering  stream  of  carriages  that  rolled 
up  and  down  the  avenue,  the  elevated  railways  which  had 
just  been  constructed,  all  were  a  marvel  to  him. 

"Where  do  these  people  get  their  wealth?"  he  asked. 

"Some  of  them  get  it  from  rural  gentlemen  who  visit  the 
town,"  said  Gordon,  laughing. 

The  old  fellow  smiled.  "I  suspect  a  good  many  of  them 
get  it  from  us  countrymen.  In  fact,  at  the  last  we  furnish 
it  all.  It  all  comes  out  of  the  ground." 

353 


GOBDON  KEITH 

"It  is  a  pity  that  we  did  not  hold  on  to  some  of  it,"  said 
Gordon. 

The  old  gentleman  glanced  at  him.  "I  do  not  want  any 
of  it.  My  son,  Agar's  standard  was  the  best :  <  neither  pov 
erty  nor  riches.7  Riches  cannot  make  a  gentleman." 

Keith  laughed  and  called  him  old-fashioned,  but  he  knew 
in  his  heart  that  he  was  right. 

The  beggars  who  accosted  him  on  the  street  never  turned 
away  empty-handed.  He  had  it  not  in  his  heart  to  refuse 
the  outstretched  hand  of  want. 

"Why,  that  man  who  pretended  that  he  had  a  large 
family  and  was  out  of  work  is  a  fraud,"  said  Gordon.  "I'll 
bet  that  he  has  no  family  and  never  works." 

"Well,  I  didn't  give  him  much,"  said  the  old  man. 
"But  remember  what  Lamb  said :  'Shut  not  thy  purse- 
strings  always  against  painted  distress.  It  is  good  to  be 
lieve  him.  Give,  and  under  the  personate  father  of  a  family 
think,  if  thou  pleasest,  that  thou  hast  relieved  an  indigent 
bachelor.' " 

A  week  later  Gordon  was  on  his  way  to  England  and  the 
General  had  returned  home. 

It  was  just  after  this  that  the  final  breach  took  place  be 
tween  Norman  Wentworth  and  his  wife.  It  was  decided 
that  for  their  children's  sake  there  should  be  no  open  sep 
aration  ;  at  least,  for  the  present.  Norman  had  business 
which  would  take  him  away  for  a  good  part  of  the  time,  and 
the  final  separation  could  be  left  to  the  future.  Meanwhile, 
to  save  appearances  somewhat,  it  was  arranged  that  Mrs. 
Wentworth  should  ask  Lois  Huntington  to  come  up  and 
spend  the  winter  in  New  York,  partly  as  her  companion 
and  partly  as  governess  for  the  children.  This  might  stop 
the  mouths  of  some  persons. 

When  the  proposal  first  reached  Miss  Abigail,  she  re 
jected  it  without  hesitation ;  she  would  not  hear  of  it. 
Curiously  enough,  Lois  suddenly  appeared  violently  anxious 
to  go.  But  following  the  suggestion  came  an  invitation 
from  Norman's  mother  asking  Miss  Abigail  to  pay  her  a  long 

354 


GENERAL  KEITH   VISITS   STRANGE   LANDS 

visit.  She  needed  her,  she  said,  and  she  asked  as  a  favor 
that  she  would  let  Lois  accept  her  daughter-in-law's  invita 
tion.  So  Miss  Abby  consented.  "The  Lawns  "  was  shut  up 
for  the  winter,  and  the  two  ladies  went  up  to  New  York. 

As  Norman  left  for  the  West  the  very  day  that  Lois  was 
installed,  she  had  no  knowledge  of  the  condition  of  affairs 
in  that  unhappy  household,  except  what  Gossip  whispered 
about  her.  This  would  have  been  more  than  enough,  but 
for  the  fact  that  the  girl  stiffened  as  soon  as  any  one  ap 
proached  the  subject,  and  froze  even  such  veterans  as  Mrs. 
Nailor. 

Mrs.  Wentworth  was  far  too  proud  to  refer  to  it.  All 
Lois  knew,  therefore,  was  that  there  was  trouble  and  she 
was  there  to  help  tide  it  over,  and  she  meant,  if  she  could, 
to  make  it  up.  Meanwhile,  Mrs.  Wentworth  was  very 
kind,  if  formal,  to  her,  and  the  children,  delighted  to  get 
rid  of  the  former  governess,  whom  they  insisted  in  de 
scribing  as  an  "old  cat,"  were  her  devoted  slaves. 

Yet  Lois  was  not  as  contented  as  she  had  fondly  ex 
pected  to  be. 

She  learned  soon  after  her  arrival  that  one  object  of 
her  visit  to  New  York  would  be  futile.  She  would  not  see 
Mr.  Keith.  He  had  gone  abroad.— "In  pursuit  of  Mrs. 
Lancaster,"  said  Mrs.  Nailor ;  for  Lois  was  willing  enough 
to  hear  all  that  lady  had  to  say  on  this  subject,  and  it  was 
a  good  deal.  "You  know,  I  believe  she  is  going  to  marry 
him.  She  will  unless  she  can  get  a  title." 

"I  do  not  believe  a  title  would  make  any  difference  to 
her,"  said  Lois,  rather  sharply,  glad  to  have  any  sound 
reason  for  attacking  Mrs.  Nailor. 

"Oh,  don't  you  believe  it !  She'd  snap  one  up  quick 
enough  if  she  had  the  chance." 

"She  has  had  a  plenty  of  chances,"  asserted  Lois. 

"Well,  it  may  serve  Mr.  Keith  a  good  turn.  He  looked 
very  low  down  for  a  while  last  Spring— just  after  that  big 
Creamer  ball.  But  he  had  quite  perked  up  this  Fall,  and, 
next  thing  I  heard,  he  had  gone  over  to  England  after 

355 


GOKDON   KEITH 

Alice  Lancaster,  who  is  spending  the  winter  there.  It  was 
time  she  went,  too,  for  people  were  beginning  to  talk  a 
good  deal  of  the  way  she  ran  after  Norman  Wentworth." 

"I  must  go/7  said  Lois,  suddenly  rising ;  "I  have  to  take 
the  children  out." 

"Poor  dears  ! "  sighed  Mrs.  Nailor.  "I  am  glad  they  have 
some  one  to  look  after  them."  Lois's  sudden  change  pre 
vented  any  further  condolence.  Fortunately,  Mrs.  Nailor 
was  too  much  delighted  with  the  opportunity  to  pour  her  in 
formation  into  quite  fresh  ears  to  observe  Lois's  expression. 

The  story  of  the  trouble  between  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wentworth 
was  soon  public  property.  Wickersham's  plans  appeared 
to  him  to  be  working  out  satisfactorily.  Louise  Went 
worth  must,  he  felt,  care  for  him  to  sacrifice  so  much  for 
him.  In  this  assumption  he  let  down  the  barriers  of 
prudence  which  he  had  hitherto  kept  up,  and,  one  even 
ing  when  the  opportunity  offered,  he  openly  declared  him 
self.  To  his  chagrin  and  amazement,  she  appeared  to  be 
shocked  and  even  to  resent  it. 

Yes,  she  liked  him— liked  him  better  than  almost  any 
one,  she  admitted ;  but  she  did  not,  she  could  not,  love 
him.  She  was  married. 

Wickersham  ridiculed  the  idea. 

Married !  Well,  what  difference  did  that  make  ?  Did 
not  many  married  women  love  other  men  than  their  hus 
bands  ?  Had  not  her  husband  gone  after  another  ? 

Her  eyes  closed  suddenly  ;  then  her  eyelids  fluttered. 

"Yes ;  but  I  am  not  like  that.  I  have  children."  She 
spoke  slowly. 

"Nonsense,"  cried  Wickersham.  "Of  course,  we  love 
each  other  and  belong  to  each  other.  Send  the  children  to 
your  husband." 

Mrs.  Wentworth  recoiled  in  horror.  There  was  that  in 
his  manner  and  look  which  astounded  her.  "Abandon  her 
children  f  "  How  could  she  ?  Her  whole  manner  changed. 
"You  have  misunderstood  me." 

356 


"Sit  down.     I  want  to  talk  to  you.1 


GENERAL   KEITH   VISITS  STRANGE   LANDS 

Wickersham  grew  angry. 

"Don't  be  a  fool,  Louise.  You  have  broken  with  your 
husband.  Now,  don't  go  and  throw  away  happiness  for  a 
priest's  figment.  Get  a  divorce  and  marry  me,  if  you 
want  to  ;  but  at  least  accept  my  love." 

But  he  had  overshot  the  mark.  He  had  opened  her 
eyes.  Was  this  the  man  she  had  taken  as  her  closest  friend  ! 
—for  whom  she  had  quarrelled  with  her  husband  and  defied 
the  world ! 

Wickersham  watched  her  as  her  doubt  worked  its  way 
in  her  mind.  He  could  see  the  process  in  her  face.  He 
suddenly  seized  her  and  drew  her  to  him. 

"Here,  stop  this !  Your  husband  has  abandoned  you 
and  gone  after  another  woman." 

She  gave  a  gasp,  but  made  no  answer. 

She  pushed  him  away  from  her  slowly,  and  after  a  mo 
ment  rose  and  walked  from  the  room  as  though  dazed. 

It  was  so  unexpected  that  Wickersham  made  no  attempt 
to  stop  her. 

A  moment  later  Lois  entered  the  room.  She  walked 
straight  up  to  him.  Wickersham  tried  to  greet  her  lightly, 
but  she  remained  grave. 

"Mr.  Wickersham,  I  do  not  think  you— ought  to  come 
here— as  often  as  you  do." 

"And,  pray,  why  not?"  he  demanded. 

Her  brown  eyes  looked  straight  into  his  and  held  them 
steadily. 

"Because  people  talk  about  it." 

"I  cannot  help  people  talking.  You  know  what  they 
are,"  said  Wickersham,  amused. 

"You  can  prevent  giving  them  occasion  to  talk.  You 
are  too  good  a  friend  of  Cousin  Louise  to  cause  her  unhap- 
piness."  The  honesty  of  her  words  was  undoubted.  It 
spoke  in  every  tone  of  her  voice  and  glance  of  her  eyes. 
"She  is  most  unhappy." 

Wickersham  conceived  a  new  idea.  How  lovely  she  was 
in  her  soft  blue  dress  ! 

357 


GOKDON  KEITH 

"Very  well ;  I  will  do  what  you  say.  There  are  few 
things  I  would  not  do  for  you."  He  stepped  closer  to  her 
and  gazed  in  her  eyes.  "Sit  down.  I  want  to  talk  to 
you." 

"Thank  you  ;  I  must  go  now." 

Wickersham  tried  to  detain  her,  but  she  backed  away, 
her  hands  down  and  held  a  little  back. 

"Good-by." 

"Miss  Huntington— Lois— "  he  said  ;  "one  moment." 

But  she  opened  the  door  and  passed  out. 

Wickersham  walked  down  the  street  in  a  sort  of  maze. 


358 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

KEITH  TKIES  HIS  FORTUNES  IN 
ANOTHER   LAND 

IN  fact,  as  usual,  Mrs.  Nailer's  statement  to  Lois  had 
some  foundation,  though  very  little.  Mrs.  Lancaster 
had  gone  abroad,  and  Keith  had  followed  her. 

Keith,  on  his  arrival  in  England,  found  Rhodes  somewhat 
changed,  at  least  in  person.  Years  of  high  living  and  ease 
had  rounded  him,  and  he  had  lost  something  of  his  old 
spirit.  At  times  an  expression  of  weariness  or  discontent 
came  into  his  eyes. 

He  was  as  cordial  as  ever  to  Keith,  and  when  Keith 
unfolded  his  plans  he  entered  into  them  with  earnestness. 

"You  have  come  at  a  good  time,"  he  said.  "They  are 
beginning  to  think  that  America  is  all  a  bonanza." 

After  talking  over  the  matter,  Rhodes  invited  Keith 
down  to  the  country. 

"We  have  taken  an  old  place  in  Warwickshire  for  the 
hunting.  An  old  friend  of  yours  is  down  there  for  a  few 
days,"— his  eyes  twinkled,— "and  we  have  some  good  fel 
lows  there.  Think  you  will  like  them— some  of  them,"  he 
added. 

"Who  is  my  friend?"  asked  Keith. 

"Her  name  was  Alice  Yorke,"  he  replied,  with  his  eyes 
on  Keith's  face. 

At  the  name  another  face  sprang  to  Keith's  mind.  The 
eyes  were  brown,  not  blue,  and  the  face  was  the  fresh  face 
of  a  young  girl.  Yet  Keith  accepted. 

Rhodes  did  not  tell  him  that  Mrs.  Lancaster  had  not  ac- 

359 


GORDON   KEITH 

cepted  their  invitation  until  after  she  had  heard  that  he  was 
to  be  invited.  Nor  did  he  tell  him  that  she  had  authorized 
him  to  subscribe  largely  to  the  stock  of  the  new  syndicate. 

On  reaching  the  station  they  were  met  by  a  rich  equipage 
with  two  liveried  servants,  and,  after  a  short  drive  through 
beautiful  country,  they  turned  into  a  fine  park,  and  pres 
ently  drove  up  before  an  imposing  old  country  house ;  for 
"The  Keep"  was  one  of  the  finest  mansions  in  all  that  re 
gion.  It  was  also  one  of  the  most  expensive.  It  had  broken 
its  owners  to  run  it.  But  this  was  nothing  to  Creamer  of 
Creamer,  Crustback  &  Company  ;  at  least,  it  was  nothing  to 
Mrs.  Creamer,  or  to  Mrs.  Rhodes,  who  was  her  daughter. 
She  had  plans,  and  money  was  nothing  to  her.  Rhodes 
was  manifestly  pleased  at  Keith's  exclamations  of  apprecia 
tion  as  they  drove  through  the  park  with  its  magnificent 
trees,  its  coppices  and  coverts,  its  stretches  of  emerald  sward 
and  roll  of  gracious  hills,  and  drew  up  at  the  portal  of  the 
mansion.  Yet  he  was  inclined  to  be  a  little  apologetic 
about  it,  too. 

"This  is  rather  too  rich  for  me,"  he  said,  between  a 
smile  and  a  sigh.  "Somehow,  I  began  too  late." 

It  was  a  noble  old  hall  into  which  he  ushered  Keith,  the 
wainscoting  dark  with  age,  and  hung  with  trophies  of  many 
a  chase  and  forgotten  field.  A  number  of  modern  easy- 
chairs  and  great  rich  rugs  gave  it  an  air  of  comfort,  even  if 
they  were  not  altogether  harmonious. 

Keith  did  not  see  Mrs.  Khodes  till  the  company  were  all 
assembled  in  the  drawing-room  for  dinner.  She  was  a 
rather  pretty  woman,  distinctly  American  in  face  and 
voice,  but  in  speech  more  English  than  any  one  Keith  had 
seen  since  landing.  Her  hair  and  speech  were  arranged  in 
the  extreme  London  fashion.  She  was  "awfully  keen  on" 
everything  she  fancied,  and  found  most  things  English 
"ripping."  She  greeted  Keith  with  somewhat  more  formal 
ity  than  he  had  expected  from  Grinnell  Rhodes's  wife,  and 
introduced  him  to  Colonel  Campbell,  a  handsome,  broad- 
shouldered  man,  as  "an  American,"  which  Keith  thought 

360 


KEITH  TRIES  HIS  FORTUNES  IN  ANOTHER  LAND 

rather  unnecessary,  since  no  one  could  have  been  in  doubt 
about  it. 

Keith  found,  on  his  arrival  in  the  drawing-room,  that  the 
house  was  full  of  company,  a  sort  of  house -party  assembled 
for  the  hunting. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  stir,  followed  by  a  hush  in  the  con 
versation,  and  monocles  and  lorgnons  went  up. 

"Here  she  comes,"  said  a  man  near  Keith. 

"Who  is  she?"  asked  a  thin  woman  with  ugly  hands, 
dropping  her  monocle  with  the  air  of  a  man. 

"La  belle  Am6ricaine,"  replied  the  man  beside  her,  "a 
friend  of  the  host." 

"Oh  !    Not  of  the  hostess  1 " 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.     I  met  her  last  night—" 

"Steepleton  is  ahead— wins  in  a  walk." 

"Oh,  she's  rich?  The  castle  needs  a  new  roof?  Will  it 
be  in  time  for  next  season?  " 

The  gentleman  said  he  knew  nothing  about  it. 

Keith  turned  and  faced  Alice  Lancaster. 

She  was  dressed  in  a  black  gown  that  fitted  perfectly  her 
straight,  supple  figure,  the  soft  folds  clinging  close  enough 
to  show  the  gracious  curves,  and  falling  away  behind  her  in 
a  train  that,  as  she  stood  with  her  head  uplifted,  gave  her 
an  appearance  almost  of  majesty.  Her  round  arms  and 
perfect  shoulders  were  of  dazzling  whiteness,-  her  abun 
dant  brown  hair  was  coiled  low  on  her  snowy  neck,  showing 
the  beauty  of  her  head ;  and  her  single  ornament  was  one 
rich  red  rose  fastened  in  her  bodice  with  a  small  diamond 
clasp.  It  was  the  little  pin  that  Keith  had  found  in  the 
Ridgely  woods  and  returned  to  her  so  long  ago ;  though 
Keith  did  not  recognize  it.  It  was  the  only  jewel  about 
her,  and  was  worn  simply  to  hold  the  rose,  as  though  that 
were  the  thing  she  valued.  Keith's  thoughts  sprang  to  the 
first  time  he  ever  saw  her  with  a  red  rose  near  her  heart 
—the  rose  he  had  given  her,  which  the  humming-bird  had 
sought  as  its  chalice. 

The  other  ladies  were  all  gowned  in  satin  and  velvet  of 

361 


GORDON   KEITH 

rich  colors,  and  were  flaming  in  jewels,  and  as  Mrs.  Lan 
caster  stood  among  them  and  they  fell  back  a  little  on 
either  side  to  look  at  her,  they  appeared,  as  it  were,  a  set 
ting  for  her. 

After  the  others  were  presented,  Keith  stepped  forward 
to  greet  her,  and  her  face  lit  up  with  a  light  that  made  it 
suddenly  young. 

"I  am  so  glad  to  see  you."  She  clasped  his  hand  warmly. 
"It  is  so  good  to  see  an  old  friend  from  our  ain  countree." 

"I  do  not  need  to  say  I  am  glad  to  see  you,"  said  Keith, 
looking  her  in  the  eyes.  "You  are  my  ain  countree  here." 

At  that  moment  the  rose  fell  at  her  feet.  It  had  slipped 
somehow  from  the  clasp  that  held  it.  A  half-dozen  men 
sprang  forward  to  pick  it  up,  but  Keith  was  ahead  of  them. 
He  took  it  up,  and,  with  his  eyes  looking  straight  into 
hers,  handed  it  to  her. 

"It  is  your  emblem ;  it  is  what  I  always  think  of  you  as 
being."  The  tone  was  too  low  for  any  one  else  to  hear ; 
but  her  mounting  color  and  the  light  in  her  eyes  told  that 
she  caught  it. 

Still  looking  straight  into  his  eyes  without  a  word,  she 
stuck  the  rose  in  her  bodice  just  over  her  heart. 

Several  women  turned  their  gaze  on  Keith  and  scanned 
him  with  sudden  interest,  and  one  of  them,  addressing  her 
companion,  a  broad-shouldered  man  with  a  pleasant,  florid 
face,  said  in  an  undertone  : 

"That  is  the  man  you  have  to  look  out  for,  Steepleton." 

"A  good-looking  fellow.     Who  is  he?  " 

"Somebody,  I  fancy,  or  our  hostess  wouldn't  have  him 
here." 

The  dinner  that  evening  was  a  function.  Mrs.  Rhodes 
would  rather  have  suffered  a  serious  misfortune  than  fail 
in  any  of  the  social  refinements  of  her  adopted  land. 
Rhodes  had  suggested  that  Keith  be  placed  next  to  Mrs. 
Lancaster,  but  Mrs.  Rhodes  had  another  plan  in  mind. 
She  liked  Alice  Lancaster,  and  she  was  trying  to  do  by  her 

362 


KEITH  TRIES  HIS  FORTUNES  IN  ANOTHER  LAND 

as  she  would  have  been  done  by.  She  wanted  her  to  make 
a  brilliant  match.  Lord  Steepleton  appeared  designed  by 
Providence  for  this  especial  purpose :  the  representative 
of  an  old  and  distinguished  house,  owner  of  a  famous— in 
deed,  of  an  historic— estate,  unhappily  encumbered,  but 
not  too  heavily  to  be  relieved  by  a  providential  fortune. 
Hunting  was  his  most  serious  occupation.  At  present  he 
was  engaged  in  the  most  serious  hunt  of  his  career  :  he  was 
hunting  an  heiress. 

Mrs.  Rhodes  was  his  friend,  and  as  his  friend  she  had  put 
him  next  to  Mrs.  Lancaster. 

Ordinarily,  Mrs.  Lancaster  would  have  been  extremely 
pleased  to  be  placed  next  the  lion  of  the  occasion.  But 
this  evening  she  would  have  liked  to  be  near  another  guest. 
He  was  on  the  other  side  of  the  board,  and  appeared  to  be, 
in  the  main,  enjoying  himself,  though  now  and  then  his 
eyes  strayed  across  in  her  direction,  and  presently,  as  he 
caught  her  glance,  he  lifted  his  glass  and  smiled.  Her 
neighbor  observed  the  act,  and  putting  up  his  monocle, 
looked  across  the  table ;  then  glanced  at  Mrs.  Lancaster^ 
and  then  looked  again  at  Keith  more  carefully. 

"Who  is  your  friend?  "  he  asked. 

Mrs.  Lancaster  smiled,  with  a  pleasant  light  in  her 
eyes. 

"An  old  friend  of  mine,  Mr.  Keith." 

"Ah!     Fortunate  man.     Scotchman?" 

"No ;  an  American." 

"Oh  !—     You  have  known  him  a  long  time?  " 

"Since  I  was  a  little  girl." 

"Oh!—    What  is  he?" 

"A  gentleman." 

"Yes."  The  Englishman  took  the  trouble  again  to  put 
up  his  monocle  and  take  a  fleeting  glance  across  the  table. 
"He  looks  it,"  he  said.  "I  mean,  what  does  he  do?  Is 
he  a  capitalist  like— like  our  host?  Or  is  he  just  getting 
to  be  a  capitalist?" 

"I  hope  he  is,"  replied  Mrs.  Lancaster,  with  a  twinkle  in 

363 


GORDON   KEITH 

her  eyes  that  showed  she  enjoyed  the  Englishman's  mysti 
fication.  "He  is  engaged  in  mining." 

She  gave  a  rosy  picture  of  the  wealth  in  the  region  from 
which  Keith  came. 

"All  your  men  do  something,  I  believe?"  said  the  gen 
tleman. 

"All  who  are  worth  anything,"  assented  Mrs.  Lancaster. 

"No  wonder  you  are  a  rich  people." 

Something  about  his  use  of  the  adjective  touched  her. 

"Our  people  have  a  sense  of  duty,  too,  and  as  much  cour 
age  as  any  others,  only  they  do  not  make  any  to-do  about 
it.  I  have  a  friend— a  gentleman— who  drove  a  stage-coach 
through  the  mountains  for  a  while  rather  than  do  nothing, 
and  who  was  held  up  one  night  and  jumped  from  the  stage 
on  the  robber,  and  chased  him  down  the  mountains  and 
disarmed  him." 

"Good  ! "  exclaimed  the  gentleman.     "Nervy  thing  ! " 

"Rather,"  said  Mrs.  Lancaster,  with  mantling  cheeks, 
stirred  by  what  she  considered  a  reflection  on  her  people. 
And  that  was  not  all  he  did.  "He  had  charge  of  a  mine, 
and  one  day  the  mine  was  flooded  while  the  men  were  at 
work,  and  he  went  in  in  the  darkness  and  brought  the  men 
out  safe." 

"Good  !  "  said  the  gentleman.  "But  he  had  others  with 
him  ?  He  did  not  go  alone  ?  " 

"He  started  alone,  and  two  men  volunteered  to  go  with 
him.  But  he  sent  them  back  with  the  first  group  they 
found,  and  then,  as  there  were  others,  he  waded  on  by  him 
self  to  where  the  others  were,  and  brought  them  out,  bring 
ing  on  his  shoulder  the  man  who  had  attempted  his  life." 

"Fine  !"  exclaimed  the  gentleman.  "I've  been  in  some 
tight  places  myself  5  but  I  don't  know  about  that.  What 
was  his  name  *? " 

"Keith." 

"Oh!" 

Her  eyes  barely  glanced  his  way  ;  but  the  Earl  of  Steeple- 
ton  saw  in  them  what  he  had  never  been  able  to  bring  there. 

364 


KEITH  TRIES  HIS  FORTUNES  IN  ANOTHER  LAND 

The  Englishman  put  up  his  monocle  and  this  time  gazed 
long  at  Gordon. 

"Nervy  chap ! "  he  said  quietly.  "Won't  you  present 
me  after  dinner?" 

In  his  slow  mind  was  dawning  an  idea  that,  perhaps, 
after  all,  this  quiet  American  who  had  driven  his  way  for 
ward  had  found  a  baiting-place  which  he,  with  all  his  titles 
and  long  pedigrees,  could  not  enter.  His  honest,  outspoken 
admiration  had,  however,  done  more  to  make  him  a  place 
in  that  guarded  fortress  than  all  Mrs.  Rhodes's  praises  had 
effected. 

A  little  later  the  guests  had  all  departed  or  scattered. 
Those  who  remained  were  playing  cards  and  appeared 
settled  for  a  good  while. 

"Keith,  we  are  out  of  it.  Let's  have  a  game  of  billiards," 
said  the  host,  who  had  given  his  seat  to  a  guest  who  had 
just  come  in  after  saying  good  night  on  the  stair  to  one  of 
the  ladies. 

Keith  followed  him  to  the  billiard-room,  a  big  apart 
ment  finished  in  oak,  with  several  large  tables  in  it,  and 
he  and  Rhodes  began  to  play.  The  game,  however,  soon 
languished,  for  the  two  men  had  much  to  talk  about. 

"Houghton,  you  may  go,"  said  Rhodes  to  the  servant 
who  attended  to  the  table.  "I  will  ring  for  you  when  I 
want  you  to  shut  up." 

"Thank  you,  sir"  ;  and  he  was  gone. 

"Now  tell  me  all  about  everything,"  said  Rhodes.  "I 
want  to  hear  everything  that  has  happened  since  I  came 
away— came  into  exile.  I  know  about  the  property  and 
the  town  that  has  grown  up  just  as  I  knew  it  would.  Tell 
me  about  the  people— old  Squire  Rawson  and  Phrony,  and 
Wickersham,  and  Norman  and  his  wife." 

Keith  told  him  about  them.  "Rhodes,"  he  said,  as  he 
ended,  "you  started  it  and  you  ought  to  have  stayed  with 
it.  Old  Rawson  says  you  foretold  it  all." 

Suddenly  Rhodes  flung  his  cue  down  on  the  table  and 
straightened  up.  "Keith,  this  is  killing  me.  Sometimes 

365 


GOKDON  KEITH 

I  think  I  can't  stand  it  another  day.     I've  a  mind  to  chuck 
up  the  whole  business  and  cut  for  it." 

Keith  gazed  at  him  in  amazement.  The  clouded  brow, 
the  burning  eyes,  the  drawn  mouth,  all  told  how  real  that 
explosion  was  and  from  what  depths  it  came.  Keith  was 
quite  startled. 

"It  all  seems  to  me  so  empty,  so  unreal,  so  puerile.  I 
am  bored  to  death  with  it.  Do  you  think  this  is  real  I " 
He  waved  his  arms  impatiently  about  him.  "It  is  all  a 
sham  and  a  fraud.  I  am  nothing— nobody.  I  am  a  puppet 
on  a  hired  stage,  playing  to  amuse— not  myself !— the  Lord 
knows  I  am  bored  enough  by  it !— but  a  lot  of  people  who 
don't  care  any  more  about  me  than  I  do  about  them.  I 
can't  stand  this.  D— n  it !  I  don't  want  to  make  love  to  any 
other  man's  wife  any  more  than  I  will  have  any  of  them 
making  love  to  my  wife.  I  think  they  are  beginning  to  un 
derstand  that.  I  showed  a  little  puppy  the  front  door  not 
long  ago — an  earl,  too,  or  next  thing  to  it,  an  earl's  eldest 
son— for  doing  what  he  would  no  more  have  dared  to  do 
in  an  Englishman's  house  than  he  would  have  tried  to 
burn  it.  After  that,  I  think,  they  began  to  see  I  might  be 
something.  Keith,  do  you  remember  what  old  Eawson 
said  to  us  once  about  marrying  ?  " 

Keith  had  been  thinking  of  it  all  the  evening. 

"Keith,  I  was  not  born  for  this  ;  I  was  born  to  do  some 
thing.  But  for  giving  up  I  might  have  been  like  Stevenson 
or  Eads  or  your  man  Maury,  whom  they  are  all  belittling 
because  he  did  it  all  himself  instead  of  getting  others  to  do 
it.  By  George !  I  hope  to  live  till  I  build  one  more  big 
bridge  or  run  one  more  long  tunnel.  Jove  !  to  stand  once 
more  up  on  the  big  girders,  so  high  that  the  trees  look 
small  below  you,  and  see  the  bridge  growing  under  your 
eyes  where  the  old  croakers  had  said  nothing  would  stand  ! " 

Keith's  eyes  sparkled,  and  he  reached  out  his  hand  ;  and 
the  other  grasped  it. 

When  Keith  returned  home,  he  was  already  in  sight  of 
victory. 

366 


KEITH  TRIES  HIS  FORTUNES  IN  ANOTHER  LAND 

The  money  had  all  been  subscribed.  His  own  interest  in 
the  venture  was  enough  to  make  him  rich,  and  he  was  to 
be  general  superintendent  of  the  new  company,  with  Mathe- 
son  as  his  manager  of  the  mines.  All  that  was  needed  now 
was  to  complete  the  details  of  the  transfer  of  the  properties, 
perfect  his  organization,  and  set  to  work.  This  for  a  time 
required  his  presence  more  or  less  continuously  in  New 
York,  and  he  opened  an  office  in  one  of  the  office  buildings 
down  in  the  city,  and  took  an  apartment  in  a  pleasant  up 
town  hotel. 

When  Keith  returned  to  New  York  that  Autumn,  it  was 
no  longer  as  a  young  man  with  eyes  aflame  with  hope  and 
expectation  and  face  alight  with  enthusiasm.  The  eager 
recruit  had  changed  to  the  veteran.  He  had  had  experi 
ence  of  a  world  where  men  lived  and  died  for  the  most 
sordid  of  all  rewards— money,  mere  money. 

The  fight  had  left  its  mark  upon  him.  The  mouth  had 
lost  something  of  the  smile  that  once  lurked  about  its  cor 
ners,  but  had  gained  in  strength.  The  eyes,  always  direct 
and  steady,  had  more  depth.  The  shoulders  had  a  squarer 
set,  as  though  they  had  been  braced  against  adversity. 
Experience  of  life  had  sobered  him. 

Sometimes  it  had  come  to  him  that  he  might  be  caught  by 
the  current  and  might  drift  into  the  same  spirit,  but  self- 
examination  up  to  this  time  had  reassured  him.  He  knew 
that  he  had  other  motives  :  the  trust  reposed  in  him  by  his 
friends,  the  responsibility  laid  upon  him,  the  resolve  to 
justify  that  confidence,  were  still  there,  beside  his  eager 
desire  for  success. 

He  called  immediately  to  see  Norman.  He  was  surprised 
to  find  how  much  he  had  aged  in  this  short  time.  His 
hair  was  sprinkled  with  gray.  He  had  lost  all  his  light 
ness.  He  was  distrait  and  almost  morose. 

"You  men  here  work  too  hard,"  asserted  Keith.  "You 
ought  to  have  run  over  to  England  with  me.  You'd  have 
learned  that  men  can  work  and  live  too.  I  spent  some  of 

367 


GORDON   KEITH 

the  most  profitable  time  I  was  over  there  in  a  deer  forest, 
which  may  have  been  Burnam-wood,  as  all  the  trees  had 
disappeared — gone  somewhere,  if  not  to  Dunsinane." 

Norman  half  smiled,  but  he  answered  wearily  : 

"I  wish  I  had  been  anywhere  else  than  where  I  was." 

He  turned  away  while  he  was  speaking  and  fumbled 
among  the  papers  on  his  desk.  Keith  rose,  and  Norman 
rose  also. 

"I  will  send  you  cards  to  the  clubs.  I  shall  not  be  in 
town  to-night,  but  to-morrow  night,  or  the  evening  after, 
suppose  you  dine  with  me  at  the  University.  I'll  have  two 
or  three  fellows  to  meet  you— or,  perhaps,  we'll  dine  alone. 
What  do  you  say  ?  We  can  talk  more  freely." 

Keith  said  that  this  was  just  what  he  should  prefer,  and 
Norman  gave  him  a  warm  handshake  and,  suddenly  seating 
himself  at  his  desk,  dived  quickly  into  his  papers. 

Keith  came  out  mystified.  There  was  something  he 
could  not  understand.  He  wondered  if  the  trouble  of 
which  he  had  heard  had  grown. 

Next  morning,  looking  over  the  financial  page  of  a  paper, 
Keith  came  on  a  paragraph  in  which  Norman's  name  ap 
peared.  He  was  mentioned  as  one  of  the  directors  of  a 
company  which  the  paper  declared  was  among  those  that 
had  disappointed  the  expectations  of  investors.  There  was 
nothing  very  tangible  about  the  article ;  but  the  general 
tone  was  critical,  and  to  Keith's  eye  unfriendly. 

When,  the  next  afternoon,  Keith  rang  the  door-bell  at 
Norman's  house,  and  asked  if  Mrs.  Wentworth  was  at  home, 
the  servant  who  opened  the  door  informed  him  that  no  one 
of  that  name  lived  there.  They  used  to  live  there,  but  had 
moved.  Mrs.  Wentworth  lived  somewhere  on  Fifth  Avenue 
near  the  Park.  It  was  a  large  new  house  near  such  a  street, 
right-hand  side,  second  house  from  the  corner. 

Keith  had  a  feeling  of  disappointment.  Somehow,  he  had 
hoped  to  hear  something  of  Lois  Huntington. 

Keith,  having  resolved  to  devote  the  afternoon  to  the 
call  on  his  friend's  wife,  and  partly  in  the  hope  of  learning 

368 


KEITH  TRIES  HIS  FORTUNES  IN  ANOTHER  LAND 

where  Lois  was,  kept  on,  and  presently  found  himself  in 
front  of  a  new  double  house,  one  of  the  largest  on  the  block, 
Keith  felt  reassured. 

"Well,  this  does  not  look  as  if  Wentworth  were  alto 
gether  broke,"  he  thought. 

A  strange  servant  opened  the  door.  Mrs.  Wentworth 
was  not  at  home.  The  other  lady  was  in— would  the  gen 
tleman  come  in?  There  was  the  flutter  of  a  dress  at  the 
top  of  the  stair. 

Keith  said  no.  He  would  call  again.  The  servant  looked 
puzzled,  for  the  lady  at  the  top  of  the  stair  had  seen  Mr, 
Keith  cross  the  street  and  had  just  given  orders  that  he 
should  be  admitted,  as  she  would  see  him.  Now,  as  Keith 
walked  away,  Miss  Lois  Huntington  descended  the  stair. 

"Why  didn't  you  let  him  in,  Hucless?"  she  demanded. 

"I  told  him  you  were  in,  Miss ;  but  he  said  he  would  not 
come  in." 

Miss  Huntington  turned  and  walked  slowly  back  up  to 
her  room.  Her  face  was  very  grave ;  she  was  pondering 
deeply. 

A  little  later  Lois  Huntington  put  on  her  hat  and  went 
out. 

Lois  had  not  found  her  position  at  Mrs.  Wentworth's  the 
most  agreeable  in  the  world.  Mrs.  Wentworth  was  moody 
and  capricious,  and  at  times  exacting. 

She  had  little  idea  how  often  that  quiet  girl  who  took 
her  complaints  so  calmly  was  tempted  to  break  her  vow  of 
silence,  answer  her  upbraidings,  and  return  home.  But 
her  old  friends  were  dropping  away  from  her.  And  it  was 
on  this  account  and  for  Norman's  sake  that  Lois  put  up 
with  her  capriciousness.  She  had  promised  Norman  to  stay 
with  her,  and  she  would  do  it. 

Mrs.  Norman's  quarrel  with  Alice  Lancaster  was  a  sore 
trial  to  Lois.  Many  of  her  friends  treated  Lois  as  if  she 
were  a  sort  of  upper  servant,  with  a  mingled  condescension 
and  hauteur.  Lois  was  rather  amused  at  it,  except  when  it 
became  too  apparent,  and  then  she  would  show  her  little 

369 


GOKDON   KEITH 

claws,  which  were  sharp  enough.  But  Mrs.  Lancaster  had 
always  been  sweet  to  her,  and  Lois  had  missed  her  sadly. 
She  no  longer  came  to  Mrs.  Wentworth's.  Lois,  however, 
was  always  urged  to  come  and  see  her,  and  an  intimacy 
had  sprung  up  between  the  two.  Lois,  with  her  freshness, 
was  like  a  breath  of  Spring  to  the  society  woman,  who  was  a 
little  jaded  with  her  experience  ;  and  the  elder  lady,  on  her 
part,  treated  the  young  girl  with  a  warmth  that  was  half 
maternal,  half  the  cordiality  of  an  elder  sister.  What  part 
Gordon  Keith  played  in  this  friendship  must  be  left  to 
surmise. 

It  was  to  Mrs.  Lancaster's  that  Lois  now  took  her  way. 
Her  greeting  was  a  cordial  one,  and  Lois  was  soon  confiding 
to  her  her  trouble ;  how  she  had  met  an  old  friend  after 
many  years,  and  then  how  a  contretemps  had  occurred. 
She  told  of  his  writing  her,  and  of  her  failure  to  answer 
his  letters,  and  how  her  aunt  had  refused  to  allow  him  to 
come  to  Brookford  to  see  them. 

Mrs.  Lancaster  listened  with  interest. 

"My  dear,  there  was  nothing  in  that.  Yes,  that  was 
just  one  of  Ferdy's  little  lies,"  she  said,  in  a  sort  of 
reverie. 

"But  it  was  so  wicked  in  him  to  tell  such  falsehoods 
about  a  man,"  exclaimed  Lois,  her  color  coming  and  going, 
her  eyes  flashing. 

Mrs.  Lancaster  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"Ferdy  does  not  like  Mr.  Keith,  and  he  does  like  you, 
and  he  probably  thought  to  prevent  your  liking  him." 

"I  detest  him." 

The  telltale  color  rushed  up  into  her  cheeks  as  Mrs.  Lan 
caster's  eyes  rested  on  her,  and  as  it  mounted,  those  blue 
eyes  grew  a  little  more  searching. 

"I  can  scarcely  bear  to  see  him  when  he  comes  there," 
said  Lois. 

"Has  he  begun  to  go  there  again?"  Mrs.  Lancaster  in 
quired,  in  some  surprise. 

"Yes  ;  and  he  pretends  that  he  is  coming  to  see  me  !  "  said 

370 


KEITH  TRIES  HIS  FORTUNES  IN  ANOTHER  LAND 

the  girl,  with  a  flash  in  her  eyes.  "You  know  that  is  not 
true?" 

"Don't  you  believe  him,"  said  the  other,  gravely.  Her 
eyes,  as  they  rested  on  the  girl's  face,  had  a  very  soft  light 
in  them. 

"Well,  we  must  make  it  up,"  she  said  presently.  "You 
are  going  to  Mrs.  Wickersham's  f  "  she  asked  suddenly. 

"Yes ;  Cousin  Louise  is  going  and  says  I  must  go.  Mr,. 
Wickersham  will  not  be  there,  you  know." 

"Yes."     She  drifted  off  into  a  reverie. 


371 


CHAPTER  XXV 
THE  DINNER  AT  MRS.   WICKERSHAM'S 

"JT'EITH  quickly  discovered  that  Rumor  was  busy  with 
XV  Ferdy  Wickersham's  name  in  other  places  than  gilded 
drawing-rooms.  He  had  been  dropped  from  the  board  of 
more  than  one  big  corporation  in  which  he  had  once  had  a 
potent  influence.  Knowing  men,  like  Stirling  and  his  club 
friends,  began  to  say  that  they  did  not  see  how  he  had  kept 
up.  But  up-town  he  still  held  on— held  on  with  a  steady  eye 
and  stony  face  that  showed  a  nerve  worthy  of  a  better 
man.  His  smile  became  more  constant,— to  be  sure,  it  was 
belied  by  his  eyes:  that  cold  gleam  was  not  mirth,— but 
Tiis  voice  was  as  insolent  as  ever. 

Several  other  rumors  soon  began  to  float  about.  One  was 
that  he  and  Mrs,  Wentworth  had  fallen  out.  As  to  the 
cause  of  this  the  town  was  divided.  One  story  was  that  the 
pretty  governess  at  Mrs.  Wentworth's  was  in  some  way  con 
cerned  with  it. 

However  this  was,  the  Wickersham  house  was  mortgaged, 
and  Rumor  began  to  say  even  up-town  that  the  Wickersham 
fortune  had  melted  away. 

The  news  of  Keith's  success  in  England  had  reached  home 
as  soon  as  he  had.  His  friends  congratulated  him,  and  his 
acquaintances  greeted  him  with  a  warmth  that,  a  few  years 
before,  would  have  cheered  his  heart  and  have  made  him 
their  friend  for  life.  Mrs.  Nailor,  when  she  met  him,  al 
most  fell  on  his  neck.  She  actually  called  him  her  "dear 
boy." 

"Oh,  I  have  been  healing  about  you ! "  she  said  archly. 

372 


THE   DINNER   AT   MKS.  WICKERSHAM'S 

"You  must  come  and  dine  with  us  at  once  and  tell  us  all 
about  it." 

"About  what?"  inquired  Keith. 

"About  your  great  successes  on  the  other  side.  You  see, 
your  friends  keep  up  with  you  ! " 

"They  do,  indeed,  and  sometimes  get  ahead  of  me,"  said 
Keith. 

"How  would  to-morrow  suit  you1?  No,  not  to-morrow- 
Saturday?  No  ;  we  are  going  out  Saturday.  Let  me  see— 
we  are  so  crowded  with  engagements  I  shall  have  to  go 
home  and  look  at  my  book.  But  you  must  come  very 
soon.  You  have  heard  the  news,  of  course?  Isn't  it 
dreadful?" 

"What  news? "     He  knew  perfectly  what  she  meant. 

"About  the  Norman- Wentworths  getting  a  divorce? 
Dreadful,  isn't  it?  Perfectly  dreadful !  But,  of  course,  it 
was  to  be  expected.  Any  one  could  see  that  all  along  ? " 

"I  could  not,"  said  Keith,  dryly ;  "but  I  do  not  claim  to 
be  any  one." 

"Which  side  are  you  on?     Norman's,  I  suppose? " 

"Neither,"  said  Keith. 

"You  know,  Ferdy  always  was  in  love  with  her?"  This 
with  a  glance  to  obtain  Keith's  views. 

"No  ;  I  know  nothing  about  it." 

"Yes ;  always,"  she  nodded  oracularly.  "Of  course,  he 
is  making  love  to  Alice  Lancaster,  too,  and  to  the  new 
governess  at  the  Wentworths'." 

"Who  is  that?"  asked  Keith,  moved  by  some  sudden 
instinct  to  inquire. 

"That  pretty  country  cousin  of  Norman's,  whom  they 
brought  there  to  save  appearances  when  Norman  first  left. 
Huntington  is  her  name." 

Keith  suddenly  grew  hot. 

"Yes,  Ferdy  is  making  love  to  her,  too.  Why,  they  say 
that  is  what  they  have  quarrelled  about.  Louise  is  insanely 
jealous,  and  she  is  very  pretty.  Yes— you  know,  Ferdy 
is  like  some  other  men?  Just  gregarious?  Yes?  But 

373 


GOKDON   KEITH 

Louise  Wentworth  was  always  his  grande  passion.  He  is 
just  amusing  himself  with  the  governess,  and  she,  poor 
little  fool,  supposes  she  has  made  a  conquest.  You  know 
how  it  is  ?  " 

"I  really  know  nothing  about  it,"  declared  Keith,  in  a 
flame. 

"Yes ;  and  he  was  always  her  grande  passion  f  Don't 
you  think  so  ?  " 

"No,  I  do  not,"  said  Keith,  firmly.  "I  know  nothing 
about  it ;  but  I  believe  she  and  Norman  were  devoted,— as 
devoted  a  couple  as  I  ever  saw,— and  I  do  not  see  why 
people  cannot  let  them  alone.  I  think  none  too  well  of 
Ferdy  Wickersham,  but  I  don't  believe  a  word  against  her. 
She  may  be  silly ;  but  she  is  a  hundred  times  better  than 
some  who  calumniate  her." 

"Oh,  you  dear  boy  !  You  were  always  so  amiable.  It's 
a  pity  the  world  is  not  like  you ;  but  it  is  not." 

"It  is  a  pity  people  do  not  let  others  alone  and  attend  to 
their  own  affairs,"  remarked  Keith,  grimly.  "I  believe 
more  than  half  the  trouble  is  made  by  the  meddlers  who 
go  around  gossiping." 

"Don't  they !  Why,  every  one  is  talking  about  it.  I 
have  not  been  in  a  drawing-room  where  it  is  not  being  dis 
cussed." 

"I  suppose  not,"  said  Mr.  Keith. 

"And,  you  know,  they  say  Norman  Wentworth  has  lost  a 
lot  of  money,  too.  But,  then,  he  has  a  large  account  to  fall 
back  on.  Alice  Lancaster  has  a  plenty." 

"What's  that?  "  Keith's  voice  had  an  unpleasant  sharp 
ness  in  it. 

"Oh,  you  know,  he  is  her  trustee,  and  they  are  great 
friends.  Good-by.  You  must  come  and  dine  with  us 
sometime— sometime  soon,  too." 

And  Mrs.  Nailor  floated  away,  and  in  the  first  drawing- 
room  she  visited  told  of  Keith's  return  and  of  his  taking 
the  story  of  Louise  Wentworth  and  Ferdy  Wickersham  very 
seriously ;  adding,  "And  you  know,  I  think  he  is  a  great 

374 


THE  DINNER  AT   MKS.  WICKEKSHAM'S 

admirer  of  Louise  himself— a  very  great  admirer.  Of 
course,  he  would  like  to  marry  Alice  Lancaster,  just  as 
Ferdy  would.  They  all  want  to  marry  her ;  but  Louise 
Wentworth  is  the  one  that  has  their  hearts.  She  knows 
how  to  capture  them.  You  keep  your  eyes  open.  You 
ought  to  have  seen  the  way  he  looked  when  I  mentioned 
Ferdy  Wickersham  and  her.  My  dear,  a  man  doesn't  look 
that  way  unless  he  feels  something  here."  She  tapped  sol 
emnly  the  spot  where  she  imagined  her  heart  to  be,  that 
dry  and  desiccated  organ  that  had  long  ceased  to  know 
any  real  warmth. 

A  little  time  afterwards,  Keith,  to  his  great  surprise,  re 
ceived  an  invitation  to  dine  at  Mrs.  Wickersham's.  He 
had  never  before  received  an  invitation  to  her  house,  and 
when  he  had  met  her,  she  had  always  been  stiff  and  repellent 
toward  him.  This  he  had  regarded  as  perfectly  natural ; 
for  he  and  Ferdy  had  never  been  friendly,  and  of  late 
had  not  even  kept  up  appearances. 

He  wondered  why  he  should  be  invited  now.  Could  it 
be  true,  as  Stirling  had  said,  laughing,  that  now  he  had  the 
key  and  would  find  all  doors  open  to  him  ? 

Keith  had  not  yet  written  his  reply  when  he  called  that 
evening  at  Mrs.  Lancaster's.  She  asked  him  if  he  had  re 
ceived  such  an  invitation.  Keith  said  yes,  but  he  did  not 
intend  to  go.  He  almost  thought  it  must  have  been 
sent  by  mistake. 

"Oh,  no ;  now  come.  Ferdy  won't  be  there,  and  Mrs. 
Wickersham  wants  to  be  friendly  with  you.  You  and 
Ferdy  don't  get  along;  but  neither  do  she  and  Ferdy. 
You  know  they  have  fallen  out  ?  Poor  old  thing  !  She  was 
talking  about  it  the  other  day,  and  she  burst  out  crying. 
She  said  he  had  been  her  idol." 

"What  is  the  matter?" 

"Oh,  Ferdy's  selfishness." 

"He  is  a  brute  !  Think  of  a  man  quarrelling  with  his 
mother  !  Why  —  ! "  He  went  into  a  reverie  in  which  his 
face  grew  very  soft,  while  Mrs.  Lancaster  watched  him 

375 


GOKDON   KEITH 

silently.  Presently  he  started.  "I  have  nothing  against  her 
except  a  sort  of  general  animosity  from  boyhood,  which  I 
am  sorry  to  have." 

"Oh,  well,  then,  come.  As  people  grow  older  they  out 
grow  their  animosities  and  wish  to  make  friends." 

"You  being  so  old  as  to  have  experienced  it  I "  said  Keith. 

"I  am  nearly  thirty  years  old,"  she  said.  "Isn't  it 
dreadful?" 

"Aurora  is  much  older  than  that,"  said  Keith. 

"Ah,  Sir  Flatterer,  I  have  a  mirror."  But  her  eyes  filled 
with  a  pleasant  light  as  Keith  said : 

"Then  it  will  corroborate  what  needs  no  proof." 

She  knew  it  was  flattery,  but  she  enjoyed  it  and  dimpled. 

"Now,  you  will  come  I  I  want  you  to  come."  She  looked 
at  him  with  a  soft  glow  in  her  face. 

"Yes.     On  your  invitation." 

"Alice  Lancaster,  place  one  good  deed  to  thy  account : 
1  Blessed  are  the  peacemakers,'  "  said  Mrs.  Lancaster. 

When  Keith  arrived  at  Mrs.  Wickersham's  he  found  the 
company  assembled  in  her  great  drawing-room— the  usual 
sort  to  be  found  in  great  drawing-rooms  of  large  new 
chateau-like  mansions  in  a  great  and  commercial  city. 

"Mr.  Keats  ! "  called  out  the  prim  servant.  They  always 
took  this  poetical  view  of  his  name. 

Mrs.  Wickersham  greeted  him  civilly  and  solemnly.  She 
had  aged  much  since  Keith  saw  her  last,  and  had  also  grown 
quite  deaf.  Her  face  showed  traces  of  the  desperate  strug 
gle  she  was  making  to  keep  up  appearances.  It  was  ap 
parent  that  she  had  not  the  least  idea  who  he  was  $  but  she 
shook  hands  with  him  much  as  she  might  have  done  at  a 
funeral  had  he  called  to  pay  his  respects.  Among  the  late 
arrivals  was  Mrs.  Wentworth.  She  was  the  richest-dressed 
woman  in  the  room,  and  her  jewels  were  the  finest,  but  she 
had  an  expression  on  her  face,  as  she  entered,  which  Keith 
had  never  seen  there.  Her  head  was  high,  and  there  was 
an  air  of  defiance  about  her  which  challenged  the  eye  at 
once. 

376 


THE  DINNER   AT   MES.  WICKERSHAM'S 

"I  don't  think  I  shall  speak  to  her/'  said  a  voice  near 
Keith. 

"Well,  I  have  known  her  all  my  life,  and  until  it  becomes 
a  public  scandal  I  don't  feel  authorized  to  cut  her—" 

The  speaker  was  Mrs.  Nailor,  who  was  in  her  most  chari 
table  mood. 

"Oh,  of  course,  I  shall  speak  to  her  here,  but  I  mean— I 
certainly  shall  not  visit  her." 

"You  know  she  has  quarrelled  with  her  friend,  Mrs.  Lan 
caster?  About  her  husband."  This  was  behind  her  fan. 

"Oh,  yes.  She  is  to  be  here  to-night.  Quite  brazen, 
isn't  it?  We  shall  see  how  they  meet.  I  met  a  remark 
ably  pretty  girl  down  in  the  dressing-room,"  she  continued  ; 
"one  of  the  guests.  She  has  such  pretty  manners,  too. 
Really,  I  thought,  from  her  politeness  to  me  in  arranging 
my  dress,  she  must  be  one  of  the  maids  until  Mrs.  Went- 
worth  spoke  to  her.  Young  girls  nowadays  are  so  rude ! 
They  take  up  the  mirror  the  whole  time,  and  never  think 
of  letting  you  see  yourself.  I  wonder  who  she  can  be ! " 

"Possibly  Mrs.  Wentworth's  companion.  I  think  she  is 
here.  She  has  to  have  some  one  to  do  the  proprieties,  you 
know  t "  said  Mrs.  Nailor. 

"I  should  think  it  might  be  as  well,"  assented  the  other, 
with  a  sniff.  "But  she  would  hardly  be  here  ! " 

"She  is  really  her  governess,  a  very  ill-bred  and  rude 
young  person,"  said  Mrs.  Nailor. 

The  other  sighed. 

"Society  is  getting  so  democratic  now,  one  might  say,  so 
mixed,  that  there  is  no  telling  whom  one  may  meet  nowa 
days." 

"No,  indeed,"  pursued  Mrs.  Nailor.  "I  do  not  at  all  ap 
prove  of  governesses  and  such  persons  being  invited  out. 
I  think  the  English  way  much  the  better.  There  the 
governess  never  dreams  of  coming  to  the  table  except  to 
luncheon,  and  her  friends  are  the  housekeeper  and  the 
butler." 

Keith,  wearied  of  the  banalities  at  his  ear,  crossed  over 

377 


GOKDON   KEITH 

to  where  Mrs.  Wentworth  stood  a  little  apart  from  the  other 
ladies.  One  or  two  men  were  talking  to  her.  She  was 
evidently  pleased  to  see  him.  She  talked  volubly,  and  with 
just  that  pitch  in  her  voice  that  betrays  a  subcurrent  of 
excitement. 

From  time  to  time  she  glanced  about  her,  appearing  to 
Keith  to  search  the  faces  of  the  other  women.  Keith 
wondered  if  it  were  a  fancy  of  his  that  they  were  holding 
a  little  aloof  from  her.  Presently  Mrs.  Nailor  came  up  and 
spoke  to  her. 

Keith  backed  away  a  little,  and  found  himself  mixed  up 
with  the  train  of  a  lady  behind  him,  a  dainty  thing  of  white 
muslin. 

He  apologized  in  some  confusion,  and  turning,  found 
himself  looking  into  Lois  Huntington's  eyes.  For  a  bare 
moment  he  was  in  a  sort  of  maze.  Then  the  expression  in 
her  face  dispelled  it.  She  held  out  her  hand,  and  he  clasped 
it ;  and  before  he  had  withdrawn  his  eyes  from  hers,  he 
knew  that  his  peace  was  made,  and  Mrs.  Wickersham's 
drawing-room  had  become  another  place.  This,  then,  was 
what  Alice  Lancaster  meant  when  she  spoke  of  the  peace 
makers. 

"It  does  not  in  the  least  matter  about  the  dress,  I  assure 
you,"  she  said  in  reply  to  his  apology.  "My  dressmaker, 
Lois  Huntington,  can  repair  it  so  that  you  will  not  know 
it  has  been  torn.  It  was  only  a  ruse  of  mine  to  attract 
your  attention."  She  was  trying  to  speak  lightly.  "I 
thought  you  were  not  going  to  speak  to  me  at  all.  It 
seems  to  be  a  way  you  have  of  treating  your  old  friends 
— your  oldest  friends,"  she  laughed. 

"Oh,  the  insolence  of  youth  ! "  said  Keith,  wishing  to  keep 
away  from  a  serious  subject.  "Let  us  settle  this  question 
of  age  here  and  now.  I  say  you  are  seven  years  old." 

"You  are  a  Bourbon,"  she  said ;  "you  neither  forget  nor 
learn.  Look  at  me.  How  old  do  I  look  ?  " 

"Seven—" 

"No.     Look." 

378 


THE  DINNER   AT   MRS.  WICKERSHAM'S 

"I  am  looking— would  I  were  Argus  !  You  look  like- 
perpetual  Youth." 

And  she  did.  She  was  dressed  in  pure  white.  Her  dark 
eyes  were  soft  and  gentle,  yet  with  mischief  lurking  in 
them,  and  her  straight  brows,  almost  black,  added  to  their 
lustre.  Her  dark  hair  was  brushed  back  from  her  white 
forehead,  and  as  she  turned,  Keith  noted  again,  as  he  had 
done  the  first  time  he  met  her,  the  fine  profile  and  the  beau 
tiful  lines  of  her  round  throat,  with  the  curves  below  it,  as 
white  as  snow.  "Perpetual  Youth,"  he  murmured. 

"And  do  you  know  what  you  are?"  she  challenged  him. 

"Yes;  Age." 

"No.  Flattery.  But  I  am  proof.  I  have  learned  that 
men  are  deceivers  ever.  You  positively  refused  to  see  me 
when  I  had  left  word  with  the  servant  that  I  would  see  you 
if  you  called."  She  gave  him  a  swift  little  glance  to  see 
how  he  took  her  charge. 

"I  did  nothing  of  the  kind.  I  will  admit  that  I  should 
know  where  you  are  by  instinct,  as  Sir  John  knew  the 
Prince  ;  but  I  did  not  expect  you  to  insist  on  my  doing  so. 
How  was  I  to  know  you  were  in  the  city  f  " 

"The  servant  told  you." 

"The  servant  told  me?" 

As  Keith's  brow  puckered  in  the  effort  to  unravel  the 
mystery,  she  nodded. 

"Um-hum— I  heard  him.     I  was  at  the  head  of  the  stair." 

Keith  tapped  his  head. 

"It's  old  age— sheer  senility." 

"'No;  I  don't  want  to  see  the  other  lady,' "she  said, 
mimicking  him  so  exactly  that  he  opened  his  eyes  wide. 

"I  am  staying  at  Mrs.  Wentworth's— Cousin  Norman's," 
she  continued,  with  a  little  change  of  expression  and  the 
least  little  lift  of  her  head. 

Keith's  expression,  perhaps,  changed  slightly,  too,  for  she 
added  quietly :  "Cousin  Louise  had  to  have  some  one  with 
her,  and  I  am  teaching  the  children.  I  am  the  governess." 

"I  have  always  said  that  children  nowadays  have  all  the 

379 


GORDON  KEITH 

best  things,"  said  Keith,  desirous  to  get  off  delicate  ground. 
"You  know,  some  one  has  said  he  never  ate  a  ripe  peach 
in  his  life :  when  he  was  a  boy  the  grown-ups  had  them, 
and  since  he  grew  up  the  children  have  them  all." 

She  laughed. 

"I  am  very  severe,  I  assure  you." 

"You  look  it.  I  should  think  you  might  be  Herod 
himself." 

She  smiled,  and  then  the  smile  died  out,  and  she  glanced 
around  her. 

"I  owe  you  an  apology,"  she  said  in  a  lowered  voice. 

"For  what?" 

"For— mis— for  not  answering  your  letters.  But  I  mis— 
I  don't  know  how  to  say  what  I  wish.  Won't  you  accept 
it  without  an  explanation?"  She  held  out  her  hand  and 
gave  him  the  least  little  flitting  glance  of  appeal. 

"I  will,"  said  Keith.     "With  all  my  heart." 

"Thank  you.  I  have  been  very  unhappy  about  it." 
She  breathed  a  little  sigh  of  relief,  which  Keith  caught. 

Mrs.  Lancaster  did  not  arrive  until  all  the  other  guests 
had  been  there  a  little  while.  But  when  she  entered  she 
had  never  looked  handsomer.  As  soon  as  she  had  greeted 
her  hostess,  her  eyes  swept  around  the  room,  and  in  their 
circuit  rested  for  a  moment  on  Keith,  who  was  talking  to 
Lois.  She  gave  them  a  charming  smile.  The  next  mo 
ment,  however,  her  eyes  stole  that  way  again,  and  this  time 
they  bore  a  graver  expression.  The  admiration  that  filled 
the  younger  girl's  eyes  was  unbounded  and  unfeigned. 

"Don't  you  think  she  is  the  handsomest  woman  in  the 
room  ?  "  she  asked,  with  a  nod  toward  Mrs.  Lancaster. 

Keith  was  suddenly  conscious  that  he  did  not  wish  to 
commit  himself  to  such  praise.  She  was  certainly  very 
handsome,  he  admitted,  but  there  were  others  who  would 
pass  muster,  too,  in  a  beauty  show. 

"Oh,  but  I  know  you  must  think  so  ;  every  one  says  you 
do,"  Lois  urged,  with  a  swift  glance  up  at  him,  which, 
somehow,  Keith  would  have  liked  to  avoid. 

380 


THE  DINNER  AT  MRS.  WICKERSHAM'S 

"Then,  I  suppose  it  must  be  so ;  for  every  one  knows  my 
innermost  thoughts.  But  I  think  she  was  more  beautiful 
when  she  was  younger.  I  do  not  know  what  it  is ;  but 
there  is  something  in  Society  that,  after  a  few  years,  takes 
away  the  bloom  of  ingenuousness  and  puts  in  its  place  just 
the  least  little  shade  of  unreality." 

"I  know  what  you  mean ;  but  she  is  so  beautiful  that 
one  would  never  notice  it.  What  a  power  such  beauty 
is  !  I  should  be  afraid  of  it."  Lois  was  speaking  almost 
to  herself,  and  Keith,  as  she  was  deeply  absorbed  in  observ 
ing  Mrs.  Lancaster,  gazed  at  her  with  renewed  interest. 

"I'd  so  much  rather  be  loved  for  myself,"  the  girl  went 
on  earnestly.  "I  think  it  is  one  of  the  compensations  that 
those  who  want  such  beauty  have—" 

"Well,  it  is  one  of  the  things  which  you  must  always 
hold  merely  as  a  conjecture,  for  you  can  never  know  by 
experience." 

She  glanced  up  at  him  with  a  smile,  half  pleased,  half 
reproving. 

"Do  you  think  I  am  the  sort  that  likes  flattery?  I 
believe  you  think  we  are  all  silly.  I  thought  you  were 
too  good  a  friend  of  mine  to  attempt  that  line  with  me." 

Keith  declared  that  all  women  loved  flattery,  but  pro 
tested,  of  course,  that  he  was  not  flattering  her. 

"Why  should  I?"  he  laughed. 

"Oh,  just  because  you  think  it  will  please  me,  and  be 
cause  it  is  so  easy.  It  is  so  much  less  trouble.  It  takes 
less  intellect,  and  you  don't  think  I  am  worth  spending 
intellect  on." 

This  Keith  stoutly  denied. 

She  gave  him  a  fleeting  glance  out  of  her  brown  eyes. 
"She,  however,  is  as  good  as  she  is  handsome,"  she  said, 
returning  to  Mrs.  Lancaster. 

"Yes ;  she  is  one  of  those  who  '  do  good  by  stealth,  and 
blush  to  find  it  fame.7 " 

"There  are  not  a  great  many  like  that  around  here,"  Lois 
smiled.  "Here  comes  one  now? "  she  added,  as  Mrs.  Nailor 

381 


GORDON  KEITH 

moved  up  to  them.  She  was  "so  glad  "  to  see  Miss  Hunt- 
ington  out.  "You  must  like  your  Winter  in  New  York ! " 
she  said,  smiling  softly.  "You  have  such  opportunities 
for  seeing  interesting  people— like  Mr.  Keith,  here? "  She 
turned  her  eyes  on  Keith. 

"Oh,  yes.  I  do.  I  see  so  many  entertaining  people," 
said  Lois,  innocently. 

"They  are  very  kind  to  you?  "  purred  the  elder  lady. 

"Most  condescending.'7  Lois  turned  her  eyes  toward 
Keith  with  a  little  sparkle  in  them ;  but  as  she  read  his 
appreciation  a  smile  stole  into  them. 

Dinner  was  solemnly  announced,  and  the  couples  swept 
out  in  that  stately  manner  appropriate  to  solemn  occasions, 
such  as  marriages,  funerals,  and  fashionable  dinners. 

"Do  you  know  your  place  1 "  asked  Keith  of  Lois,  to 
whom  he  had  been  assigned. 

"Don't  I?  A  governess  and  not  know  her  place  !  You 
must  help  me  through." 

"Through  what?" 

"The  dinner.  You  do  not  understand  what  a  tremendous 
responsibility  you  have.  This  is  my  first  dinner." 

"I  always  said  dinners  were  a  part  of  the  curse,"  said 
Keith,  lightly,  smiling  down  at  her  fresh  face  with  sheer 
content.  "I  shall  confine  myself  hereafter  to  breakfast  and 
lunch— except  when  I  receive  invitations  to  Mrs.  Wicker- 
sham's,"  he  added. 

Mrs.  Lancaster  was  on  the  other  side  of  Keith ;  so  he 
found  the  dinner  much  pleasanter  than  he  had  expected. 
She  soon  fell  to  talking  of  Lois,  a  subject  which  Keith 
found  very  agreeable. 

"You  know,  she  is  staying  with  Louise  Wentworth? 
Louise  had  to  have  some  one  to  stay  with  her,  so  she  got 
her  to  come  and  teach  the  children  this  Winter.  Louise  says 
she  is  trying  to  make  something  of  her." 

"From  my  slight  observation,  it  seems  to  me  as  if  the 
Creator  has  been  rather  successful  in  that  direction  already. 
How  does  she  propose  to  help  Him  out  ?  " 

382 


THE   DINNER   AT    MRS.  WICKERSHAM'S 

Mrs.  Lancaster  bent  forward  and  took  a  good  look  at  the 
girl,  who  at  the  moment  was  carrying  on  an  animated  con 
versation  with  Stirling.  Her  color  was  coming  and  going, 
her  eyes  were  sparkling,  and  her  cheek  was  dimpling  with 
fun. 

"She  looks  as  if  she  came  out  of  a  country  garden,  doesn't 
she  ?  "  she  said. 

"Yes,  because  she  has,  and  has  not  yet  been  wired  to  a 
stick." 

Mrs.  Lancaster's  eyes  grew  graver  at  Keith's  speech. 

Just  then  the  conversation  became  more  general. 

Some  one  told  a  story  of  a  man  travelling  with  his  wife 
and  meeting  a  former  wife,  and  forgetting  which  one  he 
then  had. 

"Oh,  that  reminds  me  of  a  story  I  heard  the  other  day. 
It  was  awfully  good— but  just  a  little  wicked,"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Nailor. 

Keith's  smile  died  out,  and  there  was  something  very 
like  a  cloud  lowering  on  his  brow.  Several  others  appeared 
surprised,  and  Mr.  Nailor,  a  small  bald-headed  man,  said 
across  the  table  :  "Hally,  don't  you  tell  that  story." 

But  Mrs.  Nailor  was  not  to  be  controlled. 

"Oh,  I  must  tell  it !  It  is  not  going  to  hurt  any  of  you. 
Let  me  see  if  there  is  any  one  here  very  young  and  inno 
cent?"  She  glanced  about  the  table.  "Oh,  yes;  there  is 
little  Miss  Huntington.  Miss  Huntington,  you  can  stop 
your  ears  while  I  tell  it." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Lois,  placidly.  She  leaned  a  little 
forward  and  put  her  fingers  in  her  ears. 

A  sort  of  gasp  went  around  the  table,  and  then  a  shout 
of  laughter,  led  by  Stirling.  Mrs.  Nailor  joined  in  it,  but 
her  face  was  red  and  her  eyes  were  angry.  Mrs.  Wentworth 
looked  annoyed. 

"Good,"  said  Mrs.  Lancaster,  in  an  undertone. 

"Divine,"  said  Keith,  his  eyes  snapping  with  satisfac 
tion. 

"It  was  not  so  bad  as  that,"  said  Mrs.  Nailor,  her  face 

383 


GORDON  KEITH 

very  red.  "Miss  Huntington,  you  can  take  your  hands 
down  now ;  I  sha'n't  tell  it." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Lois,  and  sat  quietly  back  in  her 
chair,  with  her  face  as  placid  as  a  child's. 

Mrs.  Nailor  suddenly  changed  the  conversation  to  Art. 
She  was  looking  at  a  painting  on  the  wall  behind  Keith, 
and  after  inspecting  it  a  moment  through  her  lorgnon, 
turned  toward  the  head  of  the  table. 

"Where  did  you  get  that  picture,  Mrs.  Wickersham? 
Have  I  ever  seen  it  before  ?  " 

The  hostess's  gaze  followed  hers. 

"That?  Oh,  we  have  had  it  ever  so  long.  It  is  a  por 
trait  of  an  ancestor  of  mine.  It  belonged  to  a  relative,  a 
distant  relative— another  branch,  you  know,  in  whose 
family  it  came  down,  though  we  had  even  more  right  to 
it,  as  we  were  an  older  branch,"  she  said,  gaining  courage 
as  she  went  on. 

Mrs.  Lancaster  turned  and  inspected  the  picture. 

"I,  too,  almost  seem  to  have  seen  it  before,"  she  said 
presently,  in  a  reflective  way. 

"My  dear,  you  have  not  seen  it  before,"  declared  the 
hostess,  positively.  "Although  we  have  had  it  for  a  good 
while,  it  was  at  our  place  in  the  country.  Brush,  the  pic 
ture-dealer,  says  it  is  one  of  the  finest l  old  masters '  in  New 
York,  quite  in  the  best  style  of  Sir  Peter—  What's  his 
name  ?  " 

"Then  I  have  seen  some  one  so  like  it—?  Who  can  it 
be  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Lancaster,  her  mind  still  working  along  the 
lines  of  reminiscence. 

Nearly  every  one  was  looking  now. 

"Why,  I  know  who  it  is  ! "  said  Lois  Huntington,  who  had 
turned  to  look  at  it,  to  Mrs.  Lancaster.  "It  is  Mr.  Keith." 
Her  clear  voice  was  heard  distinctly. 

"Of  course,  it  is,"  said  Mrs.  Lancaster.  Others  agreed 
with  her. 

Keith,  too,  had  turned  and  looked  over  his  shoulder  at 
the  picture  behind  him,  and  for  a  moment  he  seemed  in  a 

384 


THE  DINNER  AT  MRS.   WICKERSHAM'S 

dream.  His  father  was  gazing  down  at  him  out  of  the 
frame.  The  next  moment  he  came  to  himself.  It  was  the 
man-in-armor  that  used  to  hang  in  the  library  at  Elphin- 
stone.  As  he  turned  back,  he  glanced  at  Mrs.  Lancaster, 
and  her  eyes  gazed  into  his.  The  next  moment  he  ad 
dressed  Mrs.  Wickersham  and  started  a  new  subject  of 
conversation. 

"That  is  it,"  said  Mrs.  Lancaster  to  herself.  Then  turn 
ing  to  her  hostess,  she  said :  "No,  I  never  saw  it  before ;  I 
was  mistaken." 

But  Lois  knew  that  she  herself  had  seen  it  before,  and 
remembered  where  it  was. 

Mrs.  Wickersham  looked  extremely  uncomfortable,  but 
Keith's  calm  courtesy  set  her  at  ease  again. 

When  the  gentlemen,  after  their  cigars,  followed  the 
ladies  into  the  drawing-room,  Keith  found  Mrs.  Lancaster 
and  Lois  sitting  together,  a  little  apart  from  the  others, 
talking  earnestly.  He  walked  over  and  joined  them. 

They  had  been  talking  of  the  incident  of  the  picture, 
but  stopped  as  he  came  up. 

"Now,  Lois,"  said  Mrs.  Lancaster,  gayly,  "I  have  known 
Mr.  Keith  a  long  time,  and  I  give  you  one  standing  piece  of 
advice.  Don't  believe  one  word  that  he  tells  you ;  for  he 
is  the  most  insidious  flatterer  that  lives." 

"On  the  contrary,"  said  Keith,  bowing  and  speaking 
gravely  to  the  younger  girl,  "I  assure  you  that  you  may 
believe  implicitly  every  word  that  I  tell  you.  I  promise 
you  in  the  beginning  that  I  shall  never  tell  you  anything 
but  the  truth  as  long  as  I  live.  It  shall  be  my  claim  upon 
your  friendship." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Lois,  lifting  her  eyes  to  his  face. 
Her  color  had  deepened  a  little  at  his  earnest  manner. 
"I  love  a  palpable  truth." 

"You  do  not  get  it  often  in  Society,"  said  Mrs.  Lan 
caster. 

"I  promise  you  that  you  shall  always  have  it  from  me," 
said  Keith. 

385 


GORDON   KEITH 

"Thank  you,"  she  said  again,  quite  earnestly,  looking  him 
calmly  in  the  eyes.  "Then  we  shall  always  be  friends." 

"Always." 

Just  then  Stirling  came  up  and  with  a  very  flattering 
speech  asked  Miss  Huntington  to  sing. 

"I  hear  you  sing  like  a  seraph,"  he  declared. 

"I  thought  they  always  cried,"  she  said,  smiling ;  then, 
with  a  half-frightened  look  across  toward  her  cousin,  she 
sobered  and  declared  that  she  could  not. 

"I  have  been  meaning  to  have  her  take  lessons,"  said  Mrs. 
Wentworth,  condescendingly,  from  her  seat  near  by  ;  "but  I 
have  not  had  time  to  attend  to  it.  She  will  sing  very  well 
when  she  takes  lessons."  She  resumed  her  conversation. 
Stirling  was  still  pressing  Miss  Huntington,  and  she  was 
still  excusing  herself,  declaring  that  she  had  no  one  to 
play  her  accompaniments. 

"Please  help  me,"  she  said  in  an  undertone  to  Keith. 
"I  used  to  play  them  myself,  but  Cousin  Louise  said  I  must 
not  do  that ;  that  I  must  always  stand  up  to  sing." 

"Nonsense,"  said  Keith.  "You  sha'n't  sing  if  you  do 
not  wish  to  do  so ;  but  let  me  tell  you :  there  is  a  deed  of 
record  in  my  State  conveying  a  tract  of  land  to  a  girl  from 
an  old  gentleman  on  the  expressed  consideration  that  she 
had  sung  *  Annie  Laurie '  for  him  when  he  asked  her  to  do 
it,  without  being  begged." 

She  looked  at  him  as  if  she  had  not  heard,  and  then 
glanced  at  her  cousin. 

"Either  sing  or  don't  sing,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Went 
worth,  with  a  slight  frown.  "You  are  keeping  every  one 
waiting." 

Keith  glanced  over  at  her,  and  was  about  to  say  to  Lois, 
"Don't  sing";  but  he  was  too  late.  Folding  her  hands 
before  her,  and  without  moving  from  where  she  stood  near 
the  wall,  she  began  to  sing  "Annie  Laurie."  She  had 
a  lovely  voice,  and  she  sang  as  simply  and  unaffectedly 
as  if  she  had  been  singing  in  her  own  room  for  her  own 
pleasure. 

386 


THE  DINNER  AT  MRS.   WICKERSHAM'S 

When  she  got  through,  there  was  a  round  of  applause 
throughout  the  company.  Even  Mrs.  Wen tworth  joined  in 
it ;  but  she  came  over  and  said  : 

"That  was  well  done ;  but  next  time,  my  dear,  let  some 
one  play  your  accompaniment." 

"Next  time,  don't  you  do  any  such  thing,"  said  Keith, 
stoutly.  "You  can  never  sing  it  so  well  again  if  you  do. 
Please  accept  this  from  a  man  who  would  rather  have  heard 
you  sing  that  song  that  way  than  have  heard  Albani  sing 
in e  Lohengrin.7 "  He  took  the  rosebud  out  of  his  buttonhole 
and  gave  it  to  her,  looking  her  straight  in  the  eyes. 

"Is  this  the  truth?  "  she  asked,  with  her  gaze  quite  steady 
on  his  face. 

"The  palpable  truth,"  he  said. 


387 


CHAPTER  XXVI 
A  MISUNDERSTANDING 

MISS  LOIS  HUNTINGTON,  as  she  sank  back  in  the 
corner  of  her  cousin's  carriage,  on  their  way  home,  was 
far  away  from  the  rattling  New  York  street.  Mrs.  Went- 
worth's  occasional  recurrence  to  the  unfortunate  incidents 
of  stopping  her  ears  and  of  singing  the  song  without  an 
accompaniment  did  not  ruffle  her.  She  knew  she  had 
pleased  one  man— the  one  she  at  that  moment  would 
rather  have  pleased  than  all  the  rest  of  New  York.  Her 
heart  was  eased  of  a  load  that  had  made  it  heavy  for  many 
a  day.  They  were  once  more  friends.  Mrs.  Wentworth's 
chiding  sounded  as  if  it  were  far  away  on  some  alien 
shore,  while  Lois  floated  serenely  on  a  tide  that  appeared 
to  begin  away  back  in  her  childhood,  and  was  bearing  her 
gently,  still  gently,  she  knew  not  whither.  If  she  tried  to 
look  forward  she  was  lost  in  a  mist  that  hung  like  a  soft 
haze  over  the  horizon.  Might  there  be  a  haven  yonder  in 
that  rosy  distance  I  Or  were  those  still  the  billows  of  the 
wide  and  trackless  sea?  She  did  not  know  or  care.  She 
would  drift  and  meantime  think  of  him,  the  old  friend 
who  had  turned  the  evening  for  her  into  a  real  delight. 
Was  he  in  love  with  Mrs.  Lancaster  f  she  wondered.  Every 
one  said  he  was,  and  it  would  not  be  unnatural  if  he  were. 
It  was  on  her  account  he  had  gone  to  Mrs.  Wickersham's. 
She  undoubtedly  liked  him.  Many  men  were  after  her. 
If  Mr.  Keith  was  trying  to  marry  her,  as  every  one  said, 
he  must  be  in  love  with  her.  He  would  never  marry 

388 


A  MISUNDERSTANDING 

any  one  whom  he  did  not  love.  If  he  were  in  love  with 
Mrs.  Lancaster,  would  she  marry  him  ?  Her  belief  was  that 
she  would. 

At  the  thought  she  for  one  moment  had  a  pang  of  envy. 

Her  reverie  was  broken  in  on  by  Mrs.  Wentworth. 

"Why  are  you  so  pensive?  You  have  not  said  a  word 
since  we  started." 

"Why,  I  do  not  know.  I  was  just  thinking.  You  know, 
such  a  dinner  is  quite  an  episode  with  me." 

"Did  you  have  a  pleasant  time?  Was  Mr.  Keith  agree 
able  ?  I  was  glad  to  see  you  had  him  j  for  he  is  a  very 
agreeable  man  when  he  chooses,  but  quite  moody,  and  you 
never  know  what  he  is  going  to  say." 

"I  think  that  is  one  of  his— of  his  charms— that  you 
don't  know  what  he  is  going  to  say.  I  get  so  tired  of  talk 
ing  to  people  who  say  just  what  you  know  they  are  going 
to  say— just  what  some  one  else  has  just  said  and  what  some 
one  else  will  say  to-morrow.  It  is  like  reading  an  adver 
tisement." 

"Lois,  you  must  not  be  so  unconventional,"  said  Mrs. 
Wentworth.  "I  must  beg  you  not  to  repeat  such  a  thing 
as  your  performance  this  evening.  I  don't  like  it." 

"Very  well,  Cousin  Louise,  I  will  not,"  said  the  girl,  a 
little  stiffly.  "I  shall  recognize  your  wishes ;  but  I  must 
tell  you  that  I  do  not  agree  with  you.  I  hate  convention 
ality.  We  all  get  machine-made.  I  see  not  the  least 
objection  to  what  I  did,  except  your  wishes,  of  course,  and 
neither  did  Mr.  Keith." 

"Well,  while  you  are  with  me,  you  must  conform  to  my 
wishes.  Mr.  Keith  is  not  responsible  for  you.  Mr.  Keith 
is  like  other  men— ready  to  natter  a  young  and  unsophisti 
cated  girl." 

"No;  Mr.  Keith  is  not  like  other  men.  He  does  not 
have  to  wait  and  see  what  others  think  and  say  before  he 
forms  an  opinion.  I  am  so  tired  of  hearing  people  say  what 
they  think  others  think.  Even  Mr.  Kimmon,  at  church, 
says  what  he  thinks  his  congregation  likes— just  as  when 

389 


GOKDON   KEITH 

he  meets  them  he  flatters  them  and  tells  them  what 
dear  ladies  they  are,  and  how  well  they  look,  and  how 
good  their  wine  is.  "Why  can't  people  think  for  them 
selves  ?  " 

"Well,  on  my  word,  Lois,  you  appear  to  be  thinking  for 
yourself!  And  you  also  appear  to  think  very  highly  of 
Mr.  Keith,"  said  Mrs.  Wentworth. 

"I  do.  I  have  known  Mr.  Keith  all  my  life,"  said  the 
girl,  gravely.  "He  is  associated  in  my  mind  with  all  that 
I  loved." 

"There,  I  did  not  mean  to  call  up  sorrowful  thoughts," 
said  Mrs.  Wentworth.  "I  wanted  you  to  have  a  good 
time." 

Next  day  Mr.  Keith  gave  himself  the  pleasure  of  calling 
promptly  at  Mrs.  Norman's.  He  remembered  the  time 
when  he  had  waited  a  day  or  two  before  calling  on  Miss 
Huntington  and  had  found  her  gone,  with  its  train  of  mis 
understandings.  So  he  had  no  intention  of  repeating  the 
error.  In  Love  as  in  War,  Success  attends  Celerity. 

Miss  Huntington  was  not  at  home,  the  servant  said  in 
answer  to  Keith's  inquiries  for  the  ladies  ;  she  had  taken  the 
children  out  to  see  Madam  Wentworth.  But  Mrs.  Went 
worth  would  see  Mr.  Keith. 

Mrs.  Wentworth  was  more  than  usually  cordial.  She 
was  undoubtedly  more  nervous  than  she  used  to  be.  She 
soon  spoke  of  Norman,  and  for  a  moment  grew  quite  ex 
cited. 

"I  know  what  people  say  about  me,"  she  exclaimed. 
"I  know  they  say  I  ought  to  have  borne  everything  and 
have  gone  on  smiling  and  pretending  I  was  happy  even 
when  I  had  the  proof  that  he  was — was — that  he  no  longer 
cared  for  me,  or  for  my— my  happiness.  But  I  could  not— 
I  was  not  constituted  so.  And  if  I  have  refused  to  submit 
to  it  I  had  good  reason." 

"Mrs.  Wentworth,"  said  Keith,  "will  you  please  tell  me 
what  you  are  talking  about  ?  " 

"You  will  hear  about  it  soon  enough,"  she  said,  with  a 

390 


A   MISUNDERSTANDING 

bitter  laugh.  "All  you  have  to  do  is  to  call  on  Mrs.  Nailor 
or  Mrs.  Any-one-else  for  five  minutes." 

"If  I  hear  what  I  understand  you  to  believe,  that  Norman 
cares  for  some  one  else,  I  shall  not  believe  it." 

She  laughed  bitterly. 

"Oh,  you  and  Norman  always  swore  by  each  other.  I 
guess  that  you  are  no  better  than  other  men." 

"We  are,  at  least,  better  than  some  other  men,"  said 
Keith,  "and  Norman  is  better  than  most  other  men." 

She  simply  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  drifted  into  a 
reverie.  It  was  evidently  not  a  pleasant  one. 

Keith  rose  to  go.  And  a  half-hour  later  he  quite  casually 
called  at  old  Mrs.  Wentworth's,  where  he  found  the  children 
having  a  romp.  Miss  Huntington  looked  as  sweet  as  a  rose, 
and  Keith  thought,  or  at  least  hoped,  she  was  pleased  to 
see  him. 

Keith  promptly  availed  himself  of  Mrs.  Wentworth's 
permission,  and  was  soon  calling  every  day  or  two  at  her 
house,  and  even  on  those  days  when  he  did  not  call  he 
found  himself  sauntering  up  the  avenue  or  in  the  Park, 
watching  for  the  slim,  straight,  trim  little  figure  he  now 
knew  so  well.  He  was  not  in  love  with  Lois.  He  said  this 
to  himself  quite  positively.  He  only  admired  her,  and  had 
a  feeling  of  protection  and  warm  friendship  for  a  young 
and  fatherless  girl  who  had  once  had  every  promise  of  a 
life  of  ease  and  joy,  and  was  by  the  hap  of  ill  fortune  thrown 
out  on  the  cold  world  and  into  a  relation  of  dependence. 
He  had  about  given  up  any  idea  of  falling  in  love.  Love, 
such  as  he  had  once  known  it,  was  not  for  him.  Love  for 
love's  sake— love  that  created  a  new  world  and  peopled  it 
with  one  woman— was  over  for  him.  At  least,  so  he  said. 

And  when  he  had  reasoned  thus,  he  would  find  himself 
hurrying  along  the  avenue  or  in  the  Park,  straining  his 
eyes  to  see  if  he  could  distinguish  her  among  the  crowd  of 
walkers  and  loungers  that  thronged  the  sidewalk  or  the 
foot-path  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away.  And  if  he  could  not, 
he  was  conscious  of  disappointment ;  and  if  he  did  distin- 

391 


GOKDON   KEITH 

guish  her,  his  heart  would  give  a  bound,  and  he  would  go 
racing  along  till  he  was  at  her  side. 

Oftenest,  though,  he  visited  her  at  Mrs.  Wentworth's, 
where  he  could  talk  to  her  without  the  continual  interrup 
tion  of  the  children's  busy  tongues,  and  could  get  her  to 
sing  those  old-fashioned  songs  that,  somehow,  sounded  to 
him  sweeter  than  all  the  music  in  the  world. 

In  fact,  he  went  there  so  often  to  visit  her  that  he  began 
to  neglect  his  other  friends.  Even  Norman  he  did  not  see 
as  much  of  as  formerly. 

Once,  when  he  was  praising  her  voice  to  Mrs.  Went- 
worth,  she  said  to  him  :  "Yes,  I  think  she  would  do  well  in 
concert.  I  am  urging  her  to  prepare  herself  for  that ;  not 
at  present,  of  course,  for  I  need  her  just  now  with  the  chil 
dren  ;  but  in  a  year  or  two  the  boys  will  go  to  school  and 
the  two  girls  will  require  a  good  French  governess,  or  I  may 
take  them  to  France.  Then  I  shall  advise  her  to  try  con 
cert.  Of  course,  Miss  Brooke  cannot  take  care  of  her 
always.  Besides,  she  is  too  independent  to  allow  her  to 
do  it." 

Keith  was  angry  in  a  moment.  He  had  never  liked  Mrs. 
Wentworth  so  little.  "I  shall  advise  her  to  do  nothing  of 
the  kind,"  he  said  firmly.  "Miss  Huntington  is  a  lady, 
and  to  have  her  patronized  and  treated  as  an  inferior  by  a 
lot  of  nouveaux  riches  is  more  than  I  could  stand." 

"I  see  no  chance  of  her  marrying,"  said  Mrs.  Wentworth. 
"She  has  not  a  cent,  and  you  know  men  don't  marry  pen 
niless  girls  these  days." 

"Oh,  they  do  if  they  fall  in  love.  There  are  a  great 
many  men  in  the  world  and  even  in  New  York,  besides 
the  small  tuft-hunting,  money-loving  parasites  that  one 
meets  at  the  so-called  swell  houses.  If  those  you  and  I  know 
were  all,  New  York  would  be  a  very  insignificant  place. 
The  brains  and  the  character  and  the  heart ;  the  makers 
and  leaders,  are  not  found  at  the  dinners  and  balls  we  are 
honored  with  invitations  to  by  Mrs.  Nailor  and  her  like. 
Alice  Lancaster  was  saying  the  other  day—" 

392 


A  MISUNDERSTANDING 

Mrs.  Wentworth  froze  up. 

" Alice  Lancaster!"  Her  eyes  flashed.  "Do  not  quote 
her  to  me  ! "  Her  lips  choked  with  the  words. 

"She  is  a  friend  of  yours,  and  a  good  friend  of  yours/' 
declared  Keith,  boldly. 

"I  do  not  want  such  friends  as  that,"  she  said,  flaming 
suddenly.  "Who  do  you  suppose  has  come  between  my 
husband  and  me  t " 

"Not  Mrs.  Lancaster." 

"Yes." 

"No,"  said  Keith,  firmly  ;  "you  wrong  them  both.  You 
have  been  misled." 

She  rose  and  walked  up  and  down  the  room  in  an  ex 
citement  like  that  of  an  angry  lioness. 

"You  are  the  only  friend  that  would  say  that  to  me." 

"Then  I  am  a  better  friend  than  others."  He  went  on 
to  defend  Mrs.  Lancaster  warmly. 

When  Keith  left  he  wondered  if  that  outburst  meant 
that  she  still  loved  Norman. 

It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  Mr.  Keith's  visits  to  the 
house  of  Mrs.  Wentworth  had  gone  unobserved  or  un- 
chronicled.  That  portion  of  the  set  that  knew  Mrs.  Went 
worth  best,  which  is  most  given  to  the  discussion  of  such 
important  questions  as  who  visits  whom  too  often,  and 
who  has  stopped  visiting  whom  altogether,  with  the  reasons 
therefor,  was  soon  busy  over  Keith's  visits. 

They  were  referred  to  in  the  society  column  of  a  certain 
journal  recently  started,  known  by  some  as  "The  Scandal 
monger's  Own,"  and  some  kind  friend  was  considerate 
enough  to  send  Norman  Wentworth  a  marked  copy. 

Some  suggested  timidly  that  they  had  heard  that  Mr. 
Keith's  visits  were  due  to  his  opinion  of  the  governess  ;  but 
they  were  immediately  suppressed. 

Mrs.  Nailor  expressed  the  more  general  opinion  when 
she  declared  that  even  a  debutante  would  know  that  men 
like  Ferdy  Wickersham  and  Mr.  Keith  did  not  fall  in  love 
with  unknown  governesses.  That  sort  of  thing  would  do  to 

393 


GORDON   KEITH 

put  in  books ;  but  it  did  not  happen  in  real  life.  They 
might  visit  them,  but  —  !  After  which  she  proceeded  to 
say  as  many  ill-natured  things  about  Miss  Lois  as  she  could 
think  of ;  for  the  story  of  Lois' s  stopping  her  ears  had  also 
gotten  abroad. 

Meantime,  Keith  pursued  his  way,  happily  ignorant  of 
the  motives  attributed  to  him  by  some  of  those  who  smiled 
on  him  and  invited  him  to  their  teas.  A  half -hour  with  Lois 
Hunting-ton  was  reward  enough  to  him  for  much  waiting.  To 
see  her  eyes  brighten  and  to  hear  her  voice  grow  softer  and 
more  musical  as  she  spoke  his  name ;  to  feel  that  she  was 
in  sympathy  with  him,  that  she  understood  him  without 
explanation,  that  she  was  interested  in  his  work  :  these  were 
the  rewards  which  lit  up  life  for  him  and  sent  him  to  his 
rooms  cheered  and  refreshed.  He  knew  that  she  had  no 
idea  of  taking  him  otherwise  than  as  a  friend.  She  looked 
on  him  almost  as  a  contemporary  of  her  father.  But  life 
was  growing  very  sweet  for  him  again. 

It  was  not  long  before  the  truth  was  presented  to  him. 

One  of  his  club  friends  rallied  him  on  his  frequent 
visits  in  a  certain  quarter  and  the  conquest  which  they 
portended.  Keith  flushed  warmly.  He  had  that  moment 
been  thinking  of  Lois  Huntington.  He  had  just  been  to 
see  her,  and  her  voice  was  still  in  his  ears ;  so,  though  he 
thought  it  unusual  in  Tom  Trimmer  to  refer  to  the  matter, 
it  was  not  unnatural.  He  attempted  to  turn  the  subject 
lightly  by  pretending  to  misunderstand  him. 

"I  mean,  I  hear  you  have  cut  Wickersham  out.  Ferdy 
thought  he  had  a  little  corner  there." 

Again  Keith  reddened.  He,  too,  had  sometimes  thought 
that  Ferdy  was  beginning  to  be  attentive  to  Lois  Hunting- 
ton.  Others  manifestly  thought  so  too. 

"I  don't  know  that  I  understand  you,"  he  said. 

"Don't  you  ?  "  laughed  the  other.  "Haven't  you  seen  the 
papers  lately!" 

Keith  chilled  instantly. 

"Norman  Wentworth  is  my  friend,"  he  said  quietly. 

394 


A  MISUNDERSTANDING 

"So  they  say  is  Mrs.  Norm—"  began  Mr.  Trimmer,  with 
a  laugh. 

Before  he  had  quite  pronounced  the  name,  Keith  leaned 
forward,  his  eyes  levelled  right  into  the  other's. 

" Don't  say  that,  Trimmer.  I  want  to  be  friends  with 
you,"  he  said  earnestly.  "Don't  you  ever  couple  my  name 
with  that  lady's.  Her  husband  is  my  friend,  and  any  man 
that  says  I  am  paying  her  any  attention  other  than  such  as 
her  husband  would  have  me  pay  her  says  what  is  false." 

"I  know  nothing  about  that,"  said  Tom,  half  surlily.  "I 
am  only  giving  what  others  say." 

"Well,  don't  you  even  do  that."  He  rose  to  his  feet,  and 
stood  very  straight.  "Do  me  the  favor  to  say  to  any  one 
you  may  hear  intimate  such  a  lie  that  I  will  hold  any 
man  responsible  who  says  it." 

"Jove!"  said  Mr.  Trimmer,  afterwards,  to  his  friend 
Minturn,  "must  be  some  fire  there.  He  was  as  hot  as  pep 
per  in  a  minute.  Wanted  to  fight  any  one  who  mentioned 
the  matter.  He'll  have  his  hands  full  if  he  fights  all  who 
are  talking  about  him  and  Ferdy's  old  flame.  I  heard  half 
a  roomful  buzzing  about  it  at  Mrs.  Nailor's.  But  it  was 
none  of  my  affair.  If  he  wants  to  fight  about  another 
man's  wife,  let  him.  It's  not  the  best  way  to  stop  the 
scandal." 

"You  know,  I  think  Ferdy  is  a  little  relieved  to  get  out 
of  that,"  added  Mr.  Minturn.  "Ferdy  wants  money,  and 
big  money.  He  can't  expect  to  get  money  there.  They 
say  the  chief  cause  of  the  trouble  was  Wentworth  would 
not  put  up  money  enough  for  her.  He  has  got  his  eye  on 
the  Lancaster- Yorke  combine,  and  he  is  all  devotion  to  the 
widow  now." 

"She  won't  look  at  him.  She  has  too  much  sense.  Be 
sides,  she  likes  Keith,"  said  Stirling. 

As  Mr.  Trimmer  and  his  friend  said,  if  Keith  expected 
to  silence  all  the  tongues  that  were  clacking  with  his  name 
and  affairs,  he  was  likely  to  be  disappointed.  There  are 
some  people  to  whose  minds  the  distribution  of  scandal  is 

395 


GORDON   KEITH 

as  great  a  delight  as  the  sweetest  morsel  is  to  the  tongue. 
Besides,  there  was  one  person  who  had  a  reason  for  spread 
ing  the  report.  Ferdy  Wickersham  had  returned  and  was 
doing  his  best  to  give  it  circulation. 

Norman  Wentworth  received  in  his  mail,  one  morning, 
a  thin  letter  over  which  a  frown  clouded  his  brow.  The 
address  was  in  a  backhand.  He  had  received  a  letter  in 
the  same  handwriting  not  long  previously— an  anonymous 
letter.  It  related  to  his  wife  and  to  one  whom  he  had 
held  in  high  esteem.  He  had  torn  it  up  furiously  in 
little  bits,  and  had  dashed  them  into  the  waste-basket  as  he 
had  dashed  the  matter  from  his  mind.  He  was  near  tearing 
this  letter  up  without  reading  it ;  but  after  a  moment  he 
opened  the  envelope.  A  society  notice  in  a  paper  the  day 
before  had  contained  the  name  of  his  wife  and  that  of  Mr. 
Gordon  Keith,  and  this  was  not  the  only  time  he  had  seen 
the  two  names  together.  As  his  eye  glanced  over  the  single 
page  of  disguised  writing,  a  deeper  frown  grew  on  his  brow. 
It  was  only  a  few  lines ;  but  it  contained  a  barbed  arrow 
that  struck  and  rankled  : 

"  When  the  cat's  away 
The  mice  will  play. 
If  you  have  cut  your  wisdom-teeth, 
You'll  know  your  mouse.     His  name  is " 

It  was  signed,  "A  True  Friend." 

Norman  crushed  the  paper  in  his  hand,  in  a  rage  for  hav 
ing  read  it.  But  it  was  too  late.  He  could  not  banish  it 
from  his  mind :  so  many  things  tallied  with  it.  He  had 
heard  that  Keith  was  there  a  great  deal.  Why  had  he 
ceased  speaking  of  it  of  late  ? 

When  Keith  next  met  Norman  there  was  a  change  in 
the  latter.  He  was  cold  and  almost  morose  ;  answered  Keith 
absently,  and  after  a  little  while  rose  and  left  him  rather 
curtly. 

When  this  had  occurred  once  or  twice  Keith  determined 
to  see  Norman  and  have  a  full  explanation.  Accordingly, 

396 


A  MISUNDERSTANDING 

one  day  he  went  to  his  office.  Mr.  Wentworth  was  out,  but 
Keith  said  he  would  wait  for  him  in  his  private  office. 

On  the  table  lay  a  newspaper.  Keith  picked  it  up  to 
glance  over  it.  His  eye  fell  on  a  marked  passage.  It  was  a 
notice  of  a  dinner  to  which  he  had  been  a  few  evenings 
before.  Mrs.  Wentworth's  name  was  marked  with  a  blue 
pencil,  and  a  line  or  two  below  it  was  his  own  name  simi 
larly  marked. 

Keith  felt  the  hot  blood  surge  into  his  face,  then  a  grip 
came  about  his  throat.  Could  this  be  the  cause?  Could 
this  be  the  reason  for  Norman's  curtness?  Could  Norman 
have  this  opinion  of  him?  After  all  these  years  ! 

He  rose  and  walked  from  the  office  and  out  into  the 
street.  It  was  a  blow  such  as  he  had  not  had  in  years. 
The  friendship  of  a  lifetime  seemed  to  have  toppled  down 
in  a  moment. 

Keith  walked  home  in  deep  reflection.  That  Norman 
could  treat  him  so  was  impossible  except  on  one  theory : 
that  he  believed  the  story  which  concerned  him  and  Mrs. 
Wentworth.  That  he  could  believe  such  a  story  seemed 
absolutely  impossible.  He  passed  through  every  phase  of 
regret,  wounded  pride,  and  anger.  Then  it  came  to  him 
clearly  enough  that  if  Norman  were  laboring  under  any 
such  hallucination  it  was  his  duty  to  dispel  it.  He  should 
go  to  him  and  clear  his  mind.  The  next  morning  he  went 
again  to  Norman's  office.  To  his  sorrow,  he  learned  that  he 
had  left  town  the  evening  before  for  the  West  to  see  about 
some  business  matters.  He  would  be  gone  some  days. 
Keith  determined  to  see  him  as  soon  as  he  returned. 

Keith  had  little  difficulty  in  assigning  the  scandalous 
story  to  its  true  source,  though  he  did  Ferdy  Wickersham 
an  injustice  in  laying  the  whole  blame  on  him. 

Meantime,  Keith  determined  that  he  would  not  go  to 
Mrs.  Wentworth's  again  until  after  he  had  seen  Norman, 
even  though  it  deprived  him  of  the  chance  of  seeing  Lois. 
It  was  easier  to  him,  as  he  was  very  busy  now  pushing 
through  the  final  steps  of  his  deal  with  the  English  syndi- 

397 


GORDON  KEITH 

cate.  This  he  was  the  more  zealous  in  as  his  last  visit  South 
had  shown  him  that  old  Mr.  Rawson  was  beginning  to 
fail. 

"I  am  just  livin'  now  to  hear  about  Phrony,"  said  the 
old  man,  "—and  to  settle  with  that  man/7  he  added,  his 
deep  eyes  burning  under  his  shaggy  brows. 

Keith  had  little  idea  that  the  old  man  would  ever  live 
to  hear  of  her  again,  and  he  had  told  him  so  as  gently  as 
he  could. 

"  Then  I  shall  kill  him,"  said  the  old  man,  quietly. 

Keith  was  in  his  office  one  morning  when  his  attention 
was  arrested  by  a  heavy  step  outside  his  door.  It  had 
something  familiar  in  it.  Then  he  heard  his  name  spoken 
in  a  loud  voice.  Some  one  was  asking  for  him,  and  the  next 
moment  the  door  opened  and  Squire  Rawson  stood  on  the 
threshold.  He  looked  worn  ;  but  his  face  was  serene.  Keith's 
intuition  told  him  why  he  had  come  ;  and  the  old  man  did 
not  leave  it  in  any  doubt.  His  greeting  was  brief. 

He  had  gotten  to  New  York  only  that  morning,  and  had 
already  been  to  Wickersharn's  office  ;  but  the  office  was  shut. 

"I  have  come  to  find  her,"  he  said,  "and  I'll  find  her,  or 
I'll  drag  him  through  this  town  by  his  neck."  He  took 
out  a  pistol  and  laid  it  by  him  on  the  table. 

Keith  was  aghast.  He  knew  the  old  man's  resolution. 
His  face  showed  that  he  was  not  to  be  moved  from  it. 
Keith  began  to  argue  with  him.  They  did  not  do  things 
that  way  in  New  York,  he  said.  The  police  would  arrest 
him.  Or  if  he  should  shoot  a  man  he  would  be  tried,  and 
it  would  go  hard  with  him.  He  had  better  give  up  his 
pistol.  "Let  me  keep  it  for  you,"  he  urged. 

The  old  man  took  up  the  pistol  and  felt  for  his  pocket. 

"I'll  find  her  or  I'll  kill  him,"  he  said  stolidly.  "I  have 
come  to  do  one  or  the  other.  "If  I  do  that,  I  don't  much 
keer  what  they  do  with  me.  But  I  reckon  some  of  ?em 
would  take  the  side  of  a  woman  what's  been  treated  so. 
Well,  I'll  go  on  an'  wait  for  him.  How  do  you  find  this 
here  place?  "  He  took  out  a  piece  of  paper  and,  carefully 

398 


A  MISUNDERSTANDING 

adjusting  his  spectacles,  read  a  number.     It  was  the  num 
ber  of  Wickersham's  office. 

Keith  began  to  argue  again ;  but  the  other's  face  was 
set  like  a  rock.  He  simply  put  up  his  pistol  carefully. 
"I'll  kill  him  if  I  don't  find  her.  Well,  I  reckon  somebody 
will  show  me  the  way.  Good  day."  He  went  out. 

The  moment  his  footsteps  had  died  away,  Keith  seized 
his  hat  and  dashed  out. 

The  bulky  figure  was  going  slowly  down  the  street,  and 
Keith  saw  him  stop  a  man  and  show  him  his  bit  of  paper. 
Keith  crossed  the  street  and  hurried  011  ahead  of  him. 
Wickersham's  office  was  only  a  few  blocks  away,  and  a 
minute  later  Keith  rushed  into  the  front  office.  The  clerks 
looked  up  in  surprise  at  his  haste.  Keith  demanded  of 
one  of  them  if  Mr.  Wickersham  was  in.  The  clerk  ad 
dressed  turned  and  looked  at  another  man  nearer  the 
door  of  the  private  office,  who  shook  his  head  warningly. 
No,  Mr.  Wickersham  was  not  in. 

Keith,  however,  had  seen  the  signal,  and  he  walked 
boldly  up  to  the  door  of  the  private  office. 

"Mr.  Wickersham  is  in,  but  he  is  engaged,"  said  the  man, 
rising  hastily. 

"I  must  see  him  immediately,"  said  Keith,  and  opening 
the  door,  walked  straight  in. 

Wickersham  was  sitting  at  his  desk  poring  over  a  ledger, 
and  at  the  sudden  entrance  he  looked  up,  startled.  When 
he  saw  who  it  was  he  sprang  to  his  feet,  his  face  changing 
slightly.  Just  then  one  of  the  clerks  followed  Keith. 

As  Keith,  however,  spoke  quietly,  Wickersham's  expres 
sion  changed,  and  the  next  second  he  had  recovered  his 
composure  and  with  it  his  insolence. 

"To  what  do  I  owe  the  honor  of  this  unexpected  visit!  " 
lie  demanded,  with  a  curl  of  his  lip. 

Keith  gave  a  little  wave  of  his  arm,  as  if  he  would  sweep 
away  his  insolence. 

"I  have  come  to  warn  you  that  old  Adam  Rawson  is  in 
town  hunting  you." 

399 


GORDON   KEITH 

Wickersham's  self-contained  face  paled  suddenly,  and  he 
stepped  a  little  back.  Then  his  eye  fell  on  the  clerk,  who 
stood  just  inside  the  door.  "What  do  you  want?"  he  de 
manded  angrily.  " you  !  can't  you  keep  out  when  a 

gentleman  wants  to  see  me  on  private  business  ?  " 

The  clerk  hastily  withdrew. 

"What  does  he  want?"  he  asked  of  Keith,  with  a  dry 
voice. 

"He  is  hunting  for  you.  He  wants  to  find  his  grand 
daughter,  and  he  is  coming  after  you." 

"What  the do  I  know  about  his  granddaughter ! " 

cried  Wickersham. 

"That  is  for  you  to  say.  He  swears  that  he  will  kill  you 
unless  you  produce  her.  He  is  on  his  way  here  now,  and  I 
have  hurried  ahead  to  warn  you." 

Wickersham's  face,  already  pale,  grew  as  white  as  death, 
for  he  read  conviction  in  Keith's  tone.  With  an  oath  he 
turned  to  a  bell  and  rang  it. 

"Ring  for  a  cab  for  me  at  once,"  he  said  to  the  clerk  who 
appeared.  "Have  it  at  my  side  entrance." 

As  Keith  passed  out  he  heard  him  say  to  the  clerk  : 

"Tell  any  one  who  calls  I  have  left  town.  I  won't  see  a 
soul." 

A  little  later  an  old  man  entered  Wickersham  &  Com 
pany's  office  and  demanded  to  see  F.  C.  Wickersham. 

There  was  a  flurry  among  the  men  there,  for  they  all 
knew  that  something  unusual  had  occurred  ;  and  there  was 
that  about  the  massive,  grim  old  man,  with  his  fierce  eyes, 
that  demanded  attention. 

On  learning  that  Wickersham  was  not  in,  he  said  he 
would  wait  for  him  and  started  to  take  a  seat. 

There  was  a  whispered  colloquy  between  two  clerks,  and 
then  one  of  them  told  him  that  Mr.  Wickersham  was  not 
in  the  city.  He  had  been  called  away  from  town  the  day 
before,  and  would  be  gone  for  a  month  or  two.  Would  the 
visitor  leave  his  name  ? 

"Tell  him  Adam  Rawson  has  been  to  see  him,  and  that 

400 


A  MISUNDERSTANDING 

lie  will  come  again."  He  paused  a  moment,  then  said 
slowly :  "Tell  him  I'm  huntin'  for  him  and  I'm  goin'  to 
stay  here  till  I  find  him." 

He  walked  slowly  out,  followed  by  the  eyes  of  every  man 
in  the  office. 

The  squire  spent  his  time  between  watching  for  Wicker- 
sham  and  hunting  for  his  granddaughter.  He  would  roam 
about  the  streets  and  inquire  for  her  of  policemen  and 
strangers,  quite  as  if  New  York  were  a  small  village  like 
Ridgely  instead  of  a  great  hive  in  which  hundreds  of  thou 
sands  were  swarming,  their  identity  hardly  known  to  any 
but  themselves.  Most  of  those  to  whom  he  applied  treated 
him  as  a  harmless  old  lunatic.  But  he  was  not  always  so 
fortunate.  One  night,  when  he  was  tired  out  with  tramp 
ing  the  streets,  he  wandered  into  one  of  the  parks  and  sat 
down  on  a  bench,  where  he  finally  fell  asleep.  He  was 
awakened  by  some  one  feeling  in  his  pocket.  He  had 
just  been  dreaming  that  Phrony  had  found  him  and  had  sat 
down  beside  him  and  was  fondling  him,  and  when  he  first 
came  back  to  consciousness  her  name  was  on  his  lips.  He 
still  thought  it  was  she  who  sat  beside  him,  and  he  called 
her  by  name,  "Phrony."  The  girl,  a  poor,  painted,  bedi 
zened  creature,  was  quick  enough  to  answer  to  the  name. 

"I  am  Phrony ;  go  to  sleep  again." 

The  joy  of  getting  back  his  lost  one  aroused  the  old  man, 
and  he  sat  up  with  an  exclamation  of  delight.  The  next 
second,  at  sight  of  the  strange,  painted  face,  he  recoiled. 

"You  Phrony?" 

"Yes.  Don't  you  know  me?"  She  snuggled  closer  be 
side  him,  and  worked  quietly  at  his  big  watch,  which  some 
how  had  caught  in  his  tight  vest  pocket. 

"No,  you  ain't!  Who  are  you,  girl?  What  are  you 
doin'  ?  " 

The  young  woman  put  her  arms  around  his  neck,  and 
began  to  talk  cajolingly.  He  was  "such  a  dear  old  fellow," 
etc.,  etc.  But  the  old  man's  wit  had  now  returned  to  him. 
His  disappointment  had  angered  him. 

401 


GORDON    KEITH 

"Get  away  from  me,  woman.  What  are  you  doin'  to 
me  ?  "  he  demanded  roughly. 

She  still  clung  to  him,  using  her  poor  blandishments. 
JBut  the  squire  was  angry.  He  pushed  her  off.  "Go  away 
from  me,  I  say.  What  do  you  want?  You  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of  yourself.  You  don't  know  who  I  am.  I  am  a 
deacon  in  the  church,  a  trustee  of  Ridge  College,  and  I  have 
a  granddaughter  who  is  older  than  you.  If  you  don't  go 
away,  I  will  tap  you  with  my  stick." 

The  girl,  having  secured  his  watch,  with  something  be 
tween  a  curse  and  a  laugh,  went  off,  calling  him  "an  old 
drunk  fool." 

Next  moment  the  squire  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  to 
take  out  his  watch,  but  it  was  gone.  He  felt  in  his  other 
pockets,  but  they  were  empty,  too.  The  young  woman  had 
clung  to  him  long  enough  to  rob  him  of  everything.  The 
squire  rose  and  hurried  down  the  walk,  calling  lustily  after 
her ;  but  it  was  an  officer  who  answered  the  call.  When 
the  squire  told  his  story  he  simply  laughed  and  told  him 
he  was  drunk,  and  threatened,  if  he  made  any  disturbance, 
to  "run  him  in." 

The  old  countryman  flamed  out. 

"Run  who  in?"  he  demanded.  "Do  you  know  who  I 
am,  young  man  ?  " 

"No,  I  don't,  and  I  don't  keer  a ." 

"Well,  I'm  Squire  Rawson  of  Ridgely,  and  I  know  more 
law  than  a  hundred  consarned  blue-bellied  thief-hiders  like 
you.  Whoever  says  I  am  drunk  is  a  liar.  But  if  I  was 
drunk  is  that  any  reason  for  you  to  let  a  thief  rob  me? 
What  is  your  name?  I've  a  mind  to  arrest  you  and  run 
you  in  myself.  I've  run  many  a  better  man  in." 

It  happened  that  the  officer's  record  was  not  quite  clear 
enough  to  allow  him  to  take  the  chance  of  a  contest  with 
so  bold  an  antagonist  as  the  squire  of  Ridgely.  He  did  not 
know  just  who  he  was,  or  what  he  might  be  able  to  do.  So 
he  was  willing  to  "break  even,"  and  he  walked  off  threat- 
ning,  but  leaving  the  squire  master  of  the  field. 

402 


A  MISUNDERSTANDING 

The  next  day  the  old  man  applied  to  Keith,  who  placed 
the  matter  in  Dave  Dennison's  hands  and  persuaded  the 
squire  to  return  home. 

Keith  was  very  unhappy  over  the  misunderstanding  be 
tween  Norman  and  himself.  He  wrote  Norman  a  letter 
asking  an  interview  as  soon  as  he  returned.  But  he  re 
ceived  no  reply.  Then,  having  heard  of  his  return,  he 
went  to  his  office  one  day  to  see  him. 

Yes,  Mr.  Wentworth  was  in.  Some  one  was  with  him, 
but  would  Mr.  Keith  walk  in?  said  the  clerk,  who  knew 
of  the  friendship  between  the  two.  But  Keith  sent  in  his 
name. 

The  clerk  came  out  with  a  surprised  look  on  his  face. 
Mr.  Wentworth  was  "  engaged." 

Keith  went  home  and  wrote  a  letter,  but  his  letter  was 
returned  unopened,  and  on  it  was  the  indorsement,  "Mr. 
Norman  Wentworth  declines  to  hold  any  communication 
with  Mr.  Gordon  Keith." 

After  this,  Keith,  growing  angry,  swore  that  he  would 
take  no  further  steps. 


403 


CHAPTER   XXVII 
PHEONY  TEIPPEE  AND  THE  EEV.  ME.  SIMMON 

Keith  stepped  from  his  office  one  afternoon,  he 
thought  he  heard  his  name  called— called  somewhat 
timidly.  When,  however,  he  turned  and  glanced  around 
among  the  hurrying  throng  that  filled  the  street,  he  saw  no 
one  whom  he  knew.  Men  and  women  were  bustling  along 
with  that  ceaseless  haste  that  always  struck  him  in  New 
York— haste  to  go,  haste  to  return,  haste  to  hasten :  the 
trade-mark  of  New  York  life  :  the  hope  of  outstripping  in 
the  race. 

A  moment  later  he  was  conscious  of  a  woman's  step  close 
behind  him.  He  turned  as  the  woman  came  up  beside  him, 
and  faced— Phrony  Tripper.  She  was  so  worn  and  be 
draggled  and  aged  that  for  a  moment  he  did  not  recognize 
her.  Then,  as  she  spoke,  he  knew  her. 

"Why,  Phrony  ! »  He  held  out  his  hand.  She  seized  it 
almost  hungrily. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Keith!  Is  it  really  you?  I  hardly  dared 
hope  it  was.  I  have  not  seen  any  one  I  knew  for  so  long 
—so  long  ! "  Her  face  worked,  and  she  began  to  whimper  ; 
but  Keith  soothed  her. 

He  drew  her  away  from,  the  crowded  thoroughfare  into 
a  side  street. 

"You  knew—  ?  "  she  said,  and  gazed  at  him  with  a  silent 
appeal. 

"Yes,  I  knew.  He  deceived  you  and  deluded  you  into 
running  away  with  him." 

404 


PHRONY  AND   THE  REV.  MR.  RIMMON 

"I  thought  he  loved  me,  and  he  did  when  he  married 
me.  I  am  sure  he  did.  But  when  he  met  that  lady— " 

"When  he  did  what?'7  asked  Keith,  who  could  scarcely 
believe  his  own  ears.  "Did  he  marry  you?  FerdyWick- 
ersham?  Who  married  you?  When?  Where  was  it? 
Who  was  present?" 

"Yes ;  I  would  not  come  until  he  promised—" 

"Yes,  I  knew  he  would  promise.  But  did  he  marry 
you  afterwards?  Who  was  present?  Have  you  any  wit 
nesses?" 

"Yes.  Oh,  yes.  I  was  married  here  in  New  York— 
one  night— about  ten  o'clock— the  night  we  got  here.  Mr. 
Plume  was  our  only  witness.  Mr.  Plume  had  a  paper  the 
preacher  gave  him  ;  but  he  lost  it." 

"He  did  !     Who  married  you?     Where  was  it?" 

"His  name  was  Rimm— Rimm-something— I  cannot  re 
member  much ;  my  memory  is  all  gone.  He  was  a  young- 
man.  He  married  us  in  his  room.  Mr.  Plume  got  him 
for  me.  He  offered  to  marry  us  himself— said  he  was  a 
preacher ;  but  I  wouldn't  have  him,  and  said  I  would  go 
home  or  kill  myself  if  they  didn't  have  a  preacher.  Then 
Mr.  Plume  went  and  came  back,  and  we  all  got  in  a  car 
riage  and  drove  a  little  way,  and  got  out  and  went  into  a 
house,  and  after  some  talk  we  were  married.  I  don't  know 
the  street.  But  I  would  know  him  if  I  saw  him.  He 
was  a  young,  fat  man,  that  smiled  and  stood  on  his  toes." 
The  picture  brought  up  to  Keith  the  fat  and  unctuous 
Rimmon. 

"Well,  then  you  went  abroad,  and  your  husband  left 
you  over  there?" 

"Yes ;  I  was  in  heaven  for— for  a  little  while,  and  then 
he  left  me— for  another  woman.  I  am  sure  he  cared  for 
me,  and  he  did  not  mean  to  treat  me  so  ;  but  she  was  rich 
and  so  beautiful,  and— what  was  I?  "  She  gave  an  expres 
sive  gesture  of  self-abnegation. 

"Poor  fool ! "  said  Keith  to  himself.  "Poor  girl ! "  he  said 
aloud. 

405 


GORDON  KEITH 

"I  have  written ;  but,  maybe,  lie  never  got  my  letter. 
He  would  not  have  let  me  suffer  so." 

Keith's  mouth  shut  closer. 

She  went  on  to  tell  of  Wickersham's  leaving  her  ;  of  her 
hopes  that  after  her  child  was  born  he  would  come  back  to 
her.  But  the  child  was  born  and  died.  Then  of  her  de 
spair  ;  of  how  she  had  spent  everything,  and  sold  every 
thing  she  had  to  come  home. 

"I  think  if  I  could  see  him  and  tell  him  what  I  have 
been  through,  maybe  he  would— be  different.  I  know  he 
cared  for  me  for  a  while.— But  I  can't  find  him,"  she  went 
on  hopelessly.  "I  don't  want  to  go  to  him  where  there 
are  others  to  see  me,  for  I'm  not  fit  to  see  even  if  they'd 
let  me  in— which  they  wouldn't."  (She  glanced  down  at 
her  worn  and  shabby  frock.)  "I  have  watched  for  him 
'most  all  day,  but  I  haven't  seen  him,  and  the  police 
ordered  me  away." 

"I  will  find  him  for  you,"  said  Keith,  grimly. 

"Oh,  no !  You  mustn't — you  mustn't  say  anything  to 
him.  It  would  make  him— it  wouldn't  do  any  good,  and 
he'd  never  forgive  me."  She  coughed  deeply. 

"Phrony,  you  must  go  home,"  said  Keith. 

For  a  second  a  spasm  shot  over  her  face  ;  then  a  ray  of 
light  seemed  to  flit  across  it,  and  then  it  died  out. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"No,  I'll  never  go  back  there,"  she  said. 

"Oh,  yes,  you  will— you  must.  I  will  take  you  back. 
The  mountain  air  will  restore  you,  and—"  She  was  shak 
ing  her  head,  but  the  look  in  her  eyes  showed  that  she  was 
thinking  of  something  far  off. 

"No-no!" 

"I  will  take  you,"  repeated  Keith.  "Your  grandfather 
will  be— he  will  be  all  right.  He  has  just  been  here  hunt 
ing  for  you." 

The  expression  on  her  face  was  so  singular  that  Keith 
put  his  hand  on  her  arm.  To  his  horror,  she  burst  into  a 
laugh.  It  was  so  unreal  that  men  passing  glanced  at  her 

406 


PHKONY  AND   THE  REV.  ME.  RIMMON 

quickly,  and,  as  they  passed  on,  turned  and  looked  back 
again. 

"Well,  good-by ;  I  must  find  my  husband,"  she  said, 
holding  out  her  hand  nervously  and  speaking  in  a  hurried 
manner.  "He's  got  the  baby  with  him.  Tell  'em  at  home 
I'm  right  well,  and  the  baby  is  exactly  like  grandmother, 
but  prettier,  of  course.'7  She  laughed  again  as  she  turned 
away  and  started  off  hastily. 

Keith  caught  up  with  her. 

"But,  Phrony—"  But  she  hurried  on,  shaking  her  head, 
and  talking  to  herself  about  finding  her  baby  and  about 
its  beauty.  Keith  kept  up  with  her,  put  his  hand  in  his 
pocket,  and  taking  out  several  bills,  handed  them  to  her. 

"Here,  you  must  take  this,  and  tell  me  where  you  are 
staying." 

She  took  the  money  mechanically. 

"Where  am  I?  Oh! — where  am  I  staying?  Sixteen 
Himmelstrasse,  third  floor— yes,  that's  it.  No  :— 18  Rue 
Petits  Champs,  troisieme  etage.  Oh,  no  :— 241  Hill  Street. 
I'll  show  you  the  baby.  I  must  get  it  now."  And  she  sped 
away,  coughing. 

Keith,  having  watched  her  till  she  disappeared,  walked 
on  in  deep  reflection,  hardly  knowing  what  course  to  take. 
Presently  his  brow  cleared.  He  turned  and  went  rap 
idly  back  to  the  great  office  building  where  Wickersham 
had  his  offices  on  the  first  floor.  He  asked  for  Mr. 
Wickersham.  A  clerk  came  forward.  Mr.  Wickersham 
was  not  in  town.  No,  he  did  not  know  when  he  would 
be  back. 

After  a  few  more  questions  as  to  the  possible  time  of  his 
return,  Keith  left  his  card. 

That  evening  Keith  went  to  the  address  that  Phrony 
had  given  him.  It  was  a  small  lodging-house  of,  perhaps, 
the  tenth  rate.  The  dowdy  woman  in  charge  remembered 
a  young  woman  such  as  he  described.  She  was  ill  and 
rather  crazy  and  had  left  several  weeks  before.  She  had 
no  idea  where  she  had  gone.  She  did  not  know  her  name. 

407 


GORDON   KEITH 

Sometimes  she  called  herself  "Miss  Tripper/'  sometimes 
"Mrs.  Wickersham." 

Keith  took  a  cab  and  drove  to  the  detective  agency 
where  Dave  Dennison  had  his  office.  Keith  told  him  why 
he  had  come,  and  Dave  listened  with  tightened  lips  and 
eyes  in  which  the  flame  burned  deeper  and  deeper. 

"I'll  find  her,"  he  said. 

Having  set  Dennison  to  work,  Keith  next  directed  his 
steps  toward  the  commodious  house  to  which  the  Rev. 
William  H.  Rimmon  had  succeeded,  along  with  the  fashion 
able  church  and  the  fashionable  congregation  which  his 
uncle  had  left. 

He  was  almost  sure,  from  the  name  she  had  mentioned, 
that  Mr.  Rimmon  had  performed  the  ceremony.  Rimmon 
had  from  time  to  time  connected  his  name  with  matri 
monial  affairs  which  reflected  little  credit  on  him. 

From  the  time  Mr.  Rimmon  had  found  his  flattery  and 
patience  rewarded,  the  pulpit  from  which  Dr.  Little  had 
for  years  delivered  a  well-weighed,  if  a  somewhat  dry,  spir 
itual  pabulum  had  changed. 

Mr.  Rimmon  knew  his  congregation  too  well  to  tax 
their  patience  with  any  such  doctrinal  sermons  as  his  uncle 
had  been  given  to.  He  treated  his  people  instead  to  pleas 
ant  little  discourses  which  were  as  much  like  Epictetus 
and  Seneca  as  St.  John  or  St.  Paul. 

Fifteen  minutes  was  his  limit,  —eighteen  at  the  outside,  — 
weighed  out  like  a  ration.  Doubtless,  Mr.  Rimmou  had 
his  own  idea  of  doing  good.  His  assistants  worked  hard  in 
back  streets  and  trod  the  dusty  byways,  succoring  the 
small  fry,  while  he  stepped  on  velvet  carpets  and  cast  his 
net  for  the  larger  fish. 

Was  not  Dives  as  well  worth  saving  as  Lazarus— and 
better  worth  it  for  Rimmon's  purposes  !  And  surely  he 
was  a  more  agreeable  dinner-companion.  Besides,  nothing 
was  really  proved  against  Dives  ;  and  the  crumbs  from  his 
table  fed  many  a  Lazarus. 

But  there  were  times  when  the  Rev.  William  H.  Rimmon 

408 


PHRONY  AND   THE   REV.  MR.   RIMMON 

had  a  vision  of  other  things  :  when  the  Rev.  Mr.  Riminon, 
with  his  plump  cheeks  and  plump  stomach,  with  his  em 
broidered  stoles  and  fine  surplices,  his  rich  cassocks  and 
hand- worked  slippers,  had  a  vision  of  another  life.  He  re 
membered  the  brief  period  when,  thrown  with  a  number 
of  earnest  young  men  who  had  consecrated  their  lives  to 
the  work  of  their  Divine  Master,  he  had  had  aspirations  for 
something  essentially  different  from  the  life  he  now  led. 
Sometimes,  as  he  would  meet  some  hard-working,  thread 
bare  brother  toiling  among  the  poor,  who  yet,  for  all  his 
toil  and  narrowness  of  means,  had  in  his  face  that  light 
that  comes  only  from  feasting  on  the  living  bread,  he  envied 
him  for  a  moment,  and  would  gladly  have  exchanged  for 
a  brief  time  the  "good  things  "  that  he  had  fallen  heir  to 
for  that  look  of  peace.  These  moments,  however,  were 
rare,  and  were  generally  those  that  followed  some  evening 
of  even  greater  conviviality  than  usual,  or  some  report 
that  the  stocks  he  had  gotten  Ferdy  Wickersham  to  buy  for 
him  had  unexpectedly  gone  down,  so  that  he  must  make  up 
his  margins.  When  the  margins  had  been  made  up  and 
the  stocks  had  reacted,  Mr.  Rimmon  was  sufficiently  well 
satisfied  with  his  own  lot. 

And  of  late  Mr.  Rimmou  had  determined  to  settle  down. 
There  were  those  who  said  that  Mr.  Rimmon's  voice  took 
on  a  peculiarly  unctuous  tone  when  a  certain  young  widow, 
as  noted  for  her  wealth  as  for  her  good  looks  and  good 
nature  entered  the  portals  of  his  church. 

Keith  now  having  rung  the  bell  at  Mr.  Rimmon's 
pleasant  rectory  and  asked  if  he  was  at  home,  the  servant 
said  he  would  see.  It  is  astonishing  how  little  servants  in 
the  city  know  of  the  movements  of  their  employers.  How 
much  better  they  must  know  their  characters  ! 

A  moment  later  the  servant  returned. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Rimmon  is  in.  He  will  be  down  directly ; 
will  the  gentleman  wait  ?  " 

Keith  took  his  seat  and  inspected  the  books  on  the  table 
—a  number  of  magazines,  a  large  work  on  Exegesis,  several 

409 


GORDON    KEITH 

volumes  of  poetry,  the  Social  Register,  and  a  society  jour 
nal  that  contained  the  gossip  and  scandal  of  the  town. 

Presently  Mr.  Rimmon  was  heard  descending  the  stair. 
He  had  a  light  footfall,  extraordinarily  light  in  one  so  stout ; 
for  he  had  grown  rounder  with  the  years. 

"Ah,  Mr.  Keith.  I  believe  we  have  met  before.  What 
can  I  do  for  you?  "  He  held  Keith's  card  in  his  hand,  and 
was  not  only  civil,  but  almost  cordial.  But  he  did  not  ask 
Keith  to  sit  down. 

Keith  said  he  had  come  to  him  hoping  to  obtain  a  little 
information  which  he  was  seeking  for  a  friend.  He  was 
almost  certain  that  Mr.  Rimmon  could  give  it  to  him. 

"Ob,  yes.  Well  ?  I  shall  be  very  glad,  I  am  sure,  if  I  can 
be  of  service  to  you.  It  is  a  part  of  our  profession,  you 
know.  What  is  it?" 

"Why,"  said  Keith,  "it  is  in  regard  to  a  marriage  cere 
mony—a  marriage  that  took  place  in  this  city  three  or 
four  years  ago,  about  the  middle  of  November  three  years 
ago.  I  think  you  possibly  performed  the  ceremony." 

"Yes,  yes.  What  are  the  names  of  the  contracting  par 
ties'?  You  see,  I  solemnize  a  good  many  marriage  cere 
monies.  For  some  reason,  a  good  many  persons  come  to 
me.  My  church  is  rather— popular,  you  see.  I  hate  to 
have  l fashionable'  applied  to  holy  things.  I  cannot  tell 
without  their  names." 

"Why,  of  course,"  said  Keith,  struck  by  the  sudden 
assumption  of  a  business  manner.  "The  parties  were 
Ferdinand  C.  Wickersham  and  a  young  girl,  named  Eu- 
phronia  Tripper." 

Keith  was  not  consciously  watching  Mr.  Rimmon,  but 
the  change  in  him  was  so  remarkable  that  it  astonished 
him.  His  round  jaw  actually  dropped  for  a  second.  Keith 
knew  instantly  that  he  was  the  man.  His  inquiry  had 
struck  home.  The  next  moment,  however,  Mr.  Rimmon 
had  recovered  himself.  A  single  glance  shot  out  of  his 
eyes,  so  keen  and  suspicious  that  Keith  was  startled.  Then 
his  eyes  half  closed  again,  veiling  their  flash  of  hostility. 

410 


PHRONY  AND   THE   KEY.  MR.   RIMMON 

"  i  F.  C.  Wickershaw  and  Euphronia  Trimmer  ?  ' "  he  re 
peated  half  aloud,  shaking  his  head.  "No,  I  don't  re 
member  any  such  names.  No,  I  never  united  in  the  bonds 
of  matrimony  any  persons  of  those  names.  I  am  quite 
positive."  He  spoke  decisively. 

"No,  not  Wickershaw— F.  C.  Wickers/iam  and  Euphronia 
Tripper.  Ferdy  Wickersham— you  know  him.  And  the 
girl  was  named  Tripper ;  she  might  have  called  herself 
<Phrony>  Tripper." 

"My  dear  sir,  I  cannot  undertake  to  remember  the  names 
of  all  the  persons  whom  I  happen  to  come  in  contact  with 
in  the  performance  of  my  sacred  functions,"  began  Mr. 
Rimmon.  His  voice  had  changed,  and  a  certain  queru- 
lousness  had  crept  into  it. 

"No,  I  know  that,"  said  Keith,  calmly  ;  "but  you  must  at 
least  remember  whether  within  four  years  you  performed 
a  marriage  ceremony  for  a  man  whom  you  know  as  well  as 
you  know  Ferdy  Wickersham —  ?  " 

"Ferdy  Wickersham  !  Why  don't  you  go  and  ask  him  ?  " 
demanded  the  other,  suddenly.  "You  appear  to  know 
him  quite  as  well  as  I,  and  certainly  Mr.  Wickersham 
knows  quite  as  well  as  I  whether  or  not  he  is  married.  I 
know  nothing  of  your  reasons  for  persisting  in  this  investi 
gation.  It  is  quite  irregular,  I  assure  you.  I  don't  know 
that  ever  in  the  course  of  my  life  I  knew  quite  such  a  case. 
A  clergyman  performs  many  functions  simply  as  a  min 
isterial  official.  I  should  think  that  the  most  natural  way 
of  procedure  would  be  to  ask  Mr.  Wickersham." 

"Certainly  it  might  be.  But  whatever  my  reason  may 
be,  I  have  come  to  ask  you.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Mr. 
Wickersham  took  this  young  girl  away  from  her  home.  I 
taught  her  when  she  was  a  school-girl.  Her  grandfather, 
who  brought  her  up,  is  a  friend  of  mine.  I  wish  to  clear 
her  good  name.  I  have  reason  to  think  that  she  was  legally 
married  here  in  New  York,  and  that  you  performed  the 
ceremony,  and  I  came  to  ask  you  whether  you  did  so  or  not. 
It  is  a  simple  question.  You  can  at  least  say  whether  you 

411 


GORDON   KEITH 

did  so  or  did  not,     I  assumed  that  as  a  minister  you  would 
be  glad  to  help  clear  a  young  woman's  good  name." 

"And  I  have  already  answered  you/'  said  Mr.  Rimmon, 
who,  while  Keith  was  speaking,  had  been  forming  his  reply. 

Keith  flushed. 

"Why,  you  have  not  answered  me  at  all.  If  you  have, 
you  can  certainly  have  no  objection  to  doing  me  the  favor 
of  repeating  it.  Will  you  do  me  the  favor  to  repeat  it  f 
Bid  you  or  did  you  not  marry  Ferdy  Wickersham  to  a 
young  girl  about  three  years  ago  ?  " 

"My  dear  sir,  I  have  told  you  that  I  do  not  recognize 
your  right  to  interrogate  me  in  this  manner.  I  know 
nothing  about  your  authority  to  pursue  this  investigation, 
and  I  refuse  to  continue  this  conversation  any  longer." 

"Then  you  refuse  to  give  me  any  information  whatever?  " 
Keith  was  now  very  angry,  and,  as  usual,  very  quiet,  with 
a  certain  line  about  his  mouth,  and  his  eyes  very  keen. 

"I  do  most  emphatically  refuse  to  give  you  any  informa 
tion  whatever.  I  decline,  indeed,  to  hold  any  further  com 
munication  with  you,"  (Keith  was  yet  quieter,)  "and  I 
may  add  that  I  consider  your  entrance  here  an  intrusion  and 
your  manner  little  short  of  an  impertinence."  He  rose  on 
his  toes  and  fell  on  his  heels,  with  the  motion  which  Keith 
had  remarked  the  first  time  he  met  him. 

Keith  fastened  his  eye  on  him. 

"You  do?"  he  said.  "You  think  all  that?  You  con 
sider  even  my  entrance  to  ask  you,  a  minister  of  the  Gos 
pel,  a  question  that  any  good  man  would  have  been  glad 
to  answer,  'an  intrusion'?  Now  I  am  going  ;  but  before  I 
go  I  wish  to  tell  you  one  or  two  things.  I  have  heard 
reports  about  you,  but  I  did  not  believe  them.  I  have 
known  men  of  your  cloth,  the  holiest  men  on  earth,  saints 
of  God,  who  devoted  their  lives  to  doing  good.  I  was 
brought  up  to  believe  that  a  clergyman  must  be  a  good 
man.  I  could  not  credit  the  stories  I  have  heard  coupled 
with  your  name.  I  now  believe  them  true,  or,  at  least, 
possible." 

412 


PHRONY   AND   THE   KEY.  MR.  RIMMON 

Mr.  Rirnmon's  face  was  purple  with  rage.  He  stepped 
forward  with  uplifted  hand. 

"How  dare  you,  sir ! "  he  began. 

"I  dare  much  more,"  said  Keith,  quietly. 

"You  take  advantage  of  my  cloth—  !" 

"Oh,  no  ;  I  do  not.  I  have  one  more  thing  to  say  to  you 
before  I  go.  I  wish  to  tell  you  that  one  of  the  shrewdest 
detectives  in  New  York  is  at  work  on  this  case.  I  advise 
you  to  be  careful,  for  when  you  fall  you  will  fall  far.  Good 
day." 

He  left  Mr.  Rimmon  shaken  and  white.  His  indefinite 
threats  had  struck  him  more  deeply  than  any  direct  charge 
could  have  done.  For  Mr.  Rimmon  knew  of  acts  of  which 
Keith  could  not  have  dreamed. 

When  he  rose  he  went  to  his  sideboard,  and,  taking  out 
a  bottle,  poured  out  a  stiff  drink  and  tossed  it  off.  "I  feel 
badly,"  he  said  to  himself:  "I  have  allowed  that— that 
fellow  to  excite  me,  and  Dr.  Splint  said  I  must  not  get  ex 
cited.  I  did  pretty  well,  though  ;  I  gave  him  not  the  least 
information,  and  yet  I  did  not  tell  a  falsehood,  an  actual 
falsehood." 

With  the  composure  that  the  stimulant  brought,  a 
thought  occurred  to  him.  He  sat  down  and  wrote  a  note 
to  Wickersham,  and,  marking  it,  "Private,"  sent  it  by 
a  messenger. 

The  note  read : 

"DEAR  FERDY:  I  must  see  you  without  an  hour's 
delay  on  a  matter  of  the  greatest  possible  importance. 
Tripper-business.  Your  friend  K.  has  started  investiga 
tion  ;  claims  to  have  inside  facts.  I  shall  wait  at  my  house 
for  reply.  If  impossible  for  you  to  come  immediately,  I 
will  run  down  to  your  office. 

"Yours,  RIMMON." 

When  Mr.  Wickersham  received  this  note,  he  was  in  his 
office.  He  frowned  as  he  glanced  at  the  handwriting.  He 
said  to  himself : 

413 


GOKDON   KEITH 

"He  wants  more  money,  I  suppose.  He  is  always  after 
money,  curse  him.  He  must  deal  in  some  other  office  as  well 
as  in  this."  He  started  to  toss  the  note  aside,  but  on  second 
thought  he  tore  it  open.  For  a  moment  he  looked  puzzled, 
then  a  blank  expression  passed  over  his  face. 

He  turned  to  the  messenger-boy,  who  was  waiting  and 
chewing  gum  with  the  stolidity  of  an  automaton. 

"Did  they  tell  you  to  wait  for  an  answer?" 

"Sure  ! " 

He  leant  over  and  scribbled  a  line  and  sealed  it.  "Take 
that  back." 

"Yes,  sir."  The  automaton  departed,  glancing  from  side 
to  side  and  chewing  diligently. 

The  note  read  :  "Will  meet  you  at  club  at  five." 

As  the  messenger  passed  up  the  street,  a  smallish  man 
who  had  come  down-town  on  the  same  car  witli,  him,  and 
had  been  reading  a  newspaper  on  the  street  for  some  little 
time,  crossed  over  and  accosted  him. 

"Can  you  take  a  note  for  me?  " 

"Whereto?" 

"Up-town.     Where  are  you  going?" 

The  boy  showed  his  note. 

"Um— hum  !  Well,  my  note  will  be  right  on  your  way." 
He  scribbled  a  line.  It  read :  "Can't  be  back  till  eight. 
Look  out  for  Shepherd.  Pay  boy  25  if  delivered  before 
four." 

"You  drop  this  at  that  number  before  four  o'clock  and 
you'll  get  a  quarter." 

Then  he  passed  on. 

That  afternoon  Keith  walked  up  toward  the  Park.  All 
day  he  had  been  trying  to  find  Phrony,  and  laying  plans 
for  her  relief  when  she  should  be  found.  The  avenue  was 
thronged  with  gay  equipages  and  richly  dressed  women, 
yet  among  all  his  friends  in  New  York  there  was  but  one 
woman  to  whom  he  could  apply  in  such  a  case — Alice  Lan 
caster.  Old  Mrs.  Wentworth  would  have  been  another, 
but  he  could  not  go  to  her  now,  since  his  breach  with  Nor- 

414 


PHKONY    AND   THE   REV.  MK.  RIMMON 

man.  He  knew  that  there  were  hundreds  of  good,  kind 
women ;  they  were  all  about  him,  but  he  did  not  know 
the  in.  He  had  chosen  his  friends  in  another  set.  The  fact 
that  he  knew  no  others  to  whom  he  could  apply  struck  a 
sort  of  chill  to  his  heart.  He  felt  lonely  and  depressed. 
He  determined  to  go  to  Dr.  Templeton.  There,  at  least, 
he  was  sure  of  sympathy. 

He  turned  to  go  back  down-town,  and  at  a  little  distance 
caught  sight  of  Lois  Huntingtou.  Suddenly  a  light  ap 
peared  to  break  in  on  his  gloom.  Here  was  a  woman  to 
whom  he  could  confide  his  trouble  with  the  certainty  of 
sympathy.  As  they  walked  along  he  told  her  of  Phrony ; 
of  her  elopement ;  of  her  being  deserted  ;  and  of  his  chance 
meeting  with  her  and  her  disappearance  again.  He  did 
not  mention  Wickersham,  for  he  felt  that  until  he  had  the 
proof  of  his  marriage  he  had  no  right  to  do  so. 

"Why,  I  remember  that  old  man,  Mr.  Rawson,"  said 
Lois.  "  It  was  where  my  father  stayed  for  a  while  f  "  Her 
voice  was  full  of  tenderness. 

"Yes.     It  is  his  granddaughter." 

"I  remember  her  kindness  to  me.  We  must  find  her. 
I  will  help  you."  Her  face  was  sweet  with  tender  sympa 
thy,  her  eyes  luminous  with  firm  resolve. 

Keith  gazed  at  her  with  a  warm  feeling  surging  about 
his  heart.  Suddenly  the  color  deepened  in  her  cheeks ; 
her  expression  changed ;  a  sudden  flame  seemed  to  dart 
into  her  eyes. 

"I  wish  I  knew  that  man  ! " 

"What  would  you  do?"  demanded  Keith,  smiling  at  her 
fierceness. 

"I'd  make  him  suffer  all  his  life."  She  looked  the  incar 
nation  of  vengeance. 

"Such  a  man  would  be  hard  to  make  suffer,"  hazarded 
Keith. 

"Not  if  I  could  find  him." 

Keith  soon  left  her  to  carry  out  his  determination,  and 
Lois  went  to  see  Mrs.  Lancaster,  and  told  her  the  story  she 

415 


GOKDON   KEITH 

had  heard.  It  found  sympathetic  ears,  and  the  next  day 
Lois  and  Mrs.  Lancaster  were  hard  at  work  quietly  trying 
to  find  the  unfortunate  woman.  They  went  to  Dr.  Tem- 
pleton ;  but,  unfortunately,  the  old  man  was  ill  in  bed. 

The  next  afternoon,  Keith  caught  sight  of  Lois  walking 
up  the  street  with  some  one ;  and  when  he  got  nearer  her 
it  was  Wickersham.  They  were  so  absorbed  that  Keith 
passed  without  either  of  them  seeing  him.  He  walked 
on  with  more  than  wonder  in  his  heart.  The  meeting, 
however,  had  been  wholly  accidental  on  Lois's  part. 

Wickersham  of  late  had  frequently  fallen  in  with  Lois 
when  she  was  out  walking.  And  this  afternoon  he  had 
hardly  joined  her  when  she  began  to  speak  of  the  subject 
that  had  been  uppermost  in  her  mind  all  day.  She  did 
not  mention  any  names,  but  told  the  story  just  as  she  had 
heard  it. 

Fortunately  for  Wickersham,  she  was  so  much  engrossed 
in  her  recital  that  she  did  not  observe  her  companion's 
face  until  he  had  recovered  himself.  He  had  fallen  a  little 
behind  her  and  did  not  interrupt  her  until  he  had  quite 
mastered  himself.  Then  he  asked  quietly  : 

" Where  did  you  get  that  story? " 

"Mr.  Keith  told  me." 

"And  he  said  the  man  who  did  that  was  a  *  gentle 
man' !» 

"No,  he  did  not  say  that ;  he  did  not  give  me  the  least 
idea  who  it  was.  Do  you  know  who  it  was  ?  " 

The  question  was  so  unexpected  that  Wickersham  for  a 
moment  was  confounded.  Then  he  saw  that  she  was  quite 
innocent.  He  almost  gasped. 

"I?  How  could  I?  I  have  heard  that  story— that  is, 
something  of  it.  It  is  not  as  Mr.  Keith  related  it.  He 
has  some  of  the  facts  wrong.  I  will  tell  you  the  true  story 
if  you  will  promise  not  to  say  anything  about  it." 

Lois  promised. 

"Well,  the  truth  is  that  the  poor  creature  was  crazy  j 
she  took  it  into  her  head  that  she  was  married  to  some 

416 


PHRONY   AND   THE   REV.   MK.   RIMMON 

one,  and  ran  away  from  home  to  try  and  find  him.  At 
one  time  she  said  it  was  a  Mr.  Wagram  j  then  it  was  a  man 
named  Plume,  a  drunken  sot ;  then  I  think  she  for  a  time 
fancied  it  was  Mr.  Keith  himself;  and"— he  glanced  at 
her  quickly— "  I  am  not  sure  she  did  not  claim  me  once. 
I  knew  her  slightly.  Poor  thing  !  she  was  quite  insane." 

"Poor  thing  ! "  sighed  Lois,  softly.  She  felt  more  kindly 
toward  Wickersham  than  she  had  ever  done  before. 

"I  shall  do  what  I  can  to  help  you  find  her,"  he  added. 

"Thank  you.     I  hope  you  may  be  successful." 

"I  hope  so,"  said  Wickersham,  sincerely. 

That  evening  Wickersham  called  on  Mr.  Rimnion,  and 
the  two  were  together  for  some  time.  The  meeting  was 
not  wholly  an  amicable  one.  Wickersham  demanded  some 
thing  that  Mr.  Rimmon  was  unwilling  to  comply  with, 
though  the  former  made  him  an  offer  at  which  his  eyes 
glistened.  He  had  offered  to  carry  his  stock  for  him  as 
long  as  he  wanted  it  carried.  Mr.  Rimmon  showed  him 
his  register  to  satisfy  him  that  no  entry  had  been  made 
there  of  the  ceremony  he  had  performed  that  night  a  few 
years  before ;  but  he  was  unwilling  to  write  him  a  certifi 
cate  that  he  had  not  performed  such  a  ceremony.  He  was 
not  willing  to  write  a  falsehood. 

Wickersham  grew  angry. 

"Now  look  here,  Rimmon,"  he  said,  "you  know  per 
fectly  well  that  I  never  meant  to  marry  that— to  marry 
any  one.  You  know  that  I  was  drunk  that  night,  and  did 
not  know  what  I  was  doing,  and  that  what  I  did  was  out 
of  kindness  of  heart  to  quiet  the  poor  little  fool." 

"But  you  married  her  in  the  presence  of  a  witness,"  said 
Mr.  Rimmon,  slowly.  "And  I  gave  him  her  certificate." 

"You  must  have  been  mistaken.  I  have  the  affidavit  of 
the  man  that  he  signed  nothing  of  the  kind.  I  give  you 
my  word  of  honor  as  to  that.  Write  me  the  letter  I  want." 
He  pushed  the  decanter  on  the  table  nearer  to  Rimmon, 
who  poured  out  a  drink  and  took  it  slowly.  It  appeared 
to  give  him  courage,  for  after  a  moment  he  shook  his  head. 

417 


GORDON   KEITH 

"I  cannot." 

Wickersham  looked  at  him  with  level  eyes. 

"You  will  do  it,  or  I  will  sell  you  out,"  he  said  coldly. 

"You  cannot.  You  promised  to  carry  that  stock  for  me 
till  I  could  pay  up  the  margins." 

"Write  me  that  letter,  or  I  will  turn  you  out  of  your 
pulpit.  You  know  what  will  happen  if  I  tell  what  I  know 
of  you." 

The  other  man's  face  turned  white. 

"You  would  not  be  so  base." 

Wickersham  rose  and  buttoned  up  his  coat. 

"It  will  be  in  the  papers  day  after  to-morrow." 

"Wait,"  gasped  Rimmon.  "I  will  see  what  I  can  say." 
He  poured  a  drink  out  of  the  decanter,  and  gulped  it 
down.  Then  he  seized  a  pen  and  a  sheet  of  paper  and 
began  to  write.  He  wrote  with  care. 

"Will  this  do*?"  he  asked  tremulously. 

"Yes." 

"You  promise  not  to  use  it  unless  you  have  to*?" 

"Yes." 

"And  to  carry  the  stock  for  me  till  it  reacts  and  lets 
me  out?" 

"I  will  make  no  more  promises." 

"But  you  did  promise—,"  began  Mr.  Rimmon. 

Wickersham  put  the  letter  in  his  pocket,  and  taking  up 
his  hat,  walked  out  without  a  word.  But  his  eyes  glinted 
with  a  curious  light. 


418 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 
ALICE   LANCASTER   FINDS   PHRONY 

MR.  RIMMON  was  calling  at  Mrs.  Lancaster's  a  few 
days  after  his  interview  with  Keith  and  the  day 
following  the  interview  with  Wickersham.  Mr.  Rimmon 
called  at  Mrs.  Lancaster's  quite  frequently  of  late.  They 
had  known  each  other  a  long  time,  almost  ever  since  Mr. 
Rimmon  had  been  an  acolyte  at  his  uncle  Dr.  Little's 
church,  when  the  stout  young  man  had  first  discovered  the 
slim,  straight  figure  and  pretty  face,  with  its  blue  eyes  and 
rosy  mouth,  in  one  of  the  best  pews,  with  a  richly  dressed 
lady  beside  her.  He  had  soon  learned  that  this  was  Miss 
Alice  Yorke,  the  only  daughter  of  one  of  the  wealthiest 
men  in  town.  Miss  Alice  was  then  very  devout :  just  at  the 
age  and  stage  when  she  bent  particularly  low  on  all  the 
occasions  when  such  bowing  is  held  seemly.  And  the  mind 
of  the  young  man  was  not  unnaturally  affected  by  her  de- 
voutness. 

Since  then  Mr.  Rimmon  had  never  quite  banished  her 
from  his  mind,  except,  of  course,  during  the  brief  interval 
when  she  had  been  a  wife.  When  she  became  a  widow  she 
resumed  her  place  with  renewed  power.  And  of  late  Mr. 
Rimmon  had  begun  to  have  hope. 

Now  Mr.  Rimmon  was  far  from  easy  in  his  mind.  He 
knew  something  of  Keith's  attention  to  Mrs.  Lancaster  j 
but  it  had  never  occurred  to  him  until  lately  that  he  might 
be  successful.  Wickersham  he  had  feared  at  times ;  but 
Wickersharn's  habits  had  reassured  him.  Mrs.  Lancaster 
would  hardly  marry  him.  Now,  however,  he  had  an  uneasy 

419 


GORDON   KEITH 

feeling  that  Keith  might  injure  him,  and  he  called  partly  to 
ascertain  how  the  ground  lay,  and  partly  to  forestall  any 
possible  injury  Keith  might  do.  To  his  relief,  he  found 
Mrs.  Lancaster  more  cordial  than  usual.  The  line  of  con 
versation  he  adopted  was  quite  spiritual,  and  he  felt  ele 
vated  by  it.  Mrs.  Lancaster  also  was  visibly  impressed. 
Presently  she  said  :  "Mr.  Rimmon,  I  want  you  to  do  me  a 
favor." 

"Even  to  the  half  of  my  kingdom,"  said  Mr.  Rimmon, 
bowing  with  his  plump  hand  on  his  plump  bosom. 

"It  is  not  so  much  as  that ;  it  is  only  a  little  of  your  time 
and,  maybe,  a  little  of  your  company.  I  have  just  heard 
of  a  poor  young  woman  here  who  seems  to  be  in  quite  a 
desperate  way.  She  has  been  abandoned  by  her  husband, 
and  is  now  quite  ill.  The  person  who  told  me,  one  of  those 
good  women  who  are  always  seeking  out  such  cases,  tells 
me  that  she  has  rarely  seen  a  more  pitiable  case.  The  poor 
thing  is  absolutely  destitute.  Mrs.  King  tells  me  she  has 
seen  better  days." 

For  some  reason,  perhaps,  that  the  circumstances  called 
up  not  wholly  pleasant  associations,  Mr.  Rimmon's  face  fell 
a  little  at  the  picture  drawn.  He  did  not  respond  with  the 
alacrity  Mrs.  Lancaster  had  expected. 

"Of  course,  I  will  do  it,  if  you  wish  it— or  I  could  have 
some  of  our  workers  look  up  the  case,  and,  if  the  facts  war 
rant  it,  could  apply  some  of  our  alms  to  its  relief.  I  should 
think,  however,  the  woman  is  rather  a  fit  subject  for  a 
hospital.  Why  hasn't  she  been  sent  to  a  hospital,  I 
wonder?" 

"I  don't  know.  No,  that  is  not  exactly  what  I  meant," 
declared  Mrs.  Lancaster.  "I  thought  I  would  go  myself, 
and  that,  as  Dr.  Templeton  is  ill,  perhaps  you  would  go 
with  me.  She  seems  to  be  in  great  distress  of  mind,  and 
possibly  you  might  be  able  to  comfort  her.  I  have  never 
forgotten  what  an  unspeakable  comfort  your  uncle  was 
when  we  were  in  trouble  years  ago." 

"Oh,  of  course,  I  will  go  with  you,"  said  the  divine. 

420 


ALICE   LANCASTER   FINDS   PHRONY 

" There  is  no  place,  dear  lady,  where  I  would  not  go  in  such 
company,"  he  added,  his  head  as  much  on  one  side  as  his 
stout  neck  would  allow,  and  his  eyes  as  languishing  as  he 
dared  make  them. 

Mrs.  Lancaster,  however,  did  not  appear  to  notice  this. 
Her  face  did  not  change. 

"Very  well,  then :  we  will  go  to-morrow.  I  will  come 
around  and  pick  you  up.  I  will  get  the  address." 

So  the  following  morning  Mrs.  Lancaster's  carriage 
stopped  in  front  of  the  comfortable  house  which  adjoined 
Mr.  Rimmon's  church,  and  after  a  little  while  that  gentle 
man  came  down  the  steps.  He  was  not  in  a  happy  frame 
of  mind,  for  stocks  had  fallen  heavily  the  day  before,  and  he 
had  just  received  a  note  from  Ferdy  Wickersham.  How 
ever,  as  he  settled  his  plump  person  beside  the  lady,  the 
Rev.  William  H.  Rimmon  was  as  well-satisfied-looking  as 
any  man  on  earth  could  be.  Who  can  blame  him  if  he 
thought  how  sweet  it  would  be  if  he  could  drive  thus 
always ! 

The  carriage  presently  stopped  at  the  entrance  of  a  narrow 
street  that  ran  down  toward  the  river.  The  coachman 
appeared  unwilling  to  drive  down  so  wretched  an  alley, 
ttnd  waited  for  further  instructions.  After  a  few  words  the 
clergyman  and  Mrs.  Lancaster  got  out. 

"You  wait  here,  James ;  we  will  walk."  They  made 
their  way  down  the  street,  through  a  multitude  of  curious 
children  with  one  common  attribute,  dirt,  examining  the 
numbers  on  either  side,  and  commiserating  the  poor  crea 
tures  who  had  to  live  in  such  squalor. 

Presently  Mrs.  Lancaster  stopped. 

"This  is  the  number." 

It  was  an  old  house  between  two  other  old  houses. 

Mrs.  Lancaster  made  some  inquiries  of  a  slatternly 
woman  who  sat  sewing  just  inside  the  doorway,  and  the 
latter  said  there  was  such  a  person  as  she  asked  for  in  a 
room  on  the  fourth  floor.  She  knew  nothing  about  her 
except  that  she  was  very  sick  and  mostly  out  of  her  head. 

421 


GORDON   KEITH 

The  health -doctor  had  been  to  see  her,  and  talked  about 
sending  her  to  a  hospital. 

The  three  made  their  way  np  the  narrow  stairs  and 
through  the  dark  passages,  so  dark  that  matches  had  to  be 
lighted  to  show  them  the  way.  Several  times  Mr.  Rimmon 
protested  against  Mrs.  Lancaster  going  farther.  Such 
holes  were  abominable ;  some  one  ought  to  be  prosecuted 
for  it.  Finally  the  woman  stopped  at  a  door. 

"She's  in  here."  She  pushed  the  door  open  without 
knocking,  and  walked  in,  followed  by  Mrs.  Lancaster  and 
Mr.  Rimmou.  It  was  a  cupboard  hardly  more  than  ten 
feet  square,  with  a  little  window  that  looked  out  on  a  dead- 
wall  not  more  than  an  arm's-length  away. 

A  bed,  a  table  made  of  an  old  box,  and  another  box 
which  served  as  a  stool,  constituted  most  of  the  furniture, 
and  in  the  bed,  under  a  ragged  coverlid,  lay  the  form  of  the 
sick  woman. 

"There's  a  lady  and  a  priest  come  to  see  you,"  said  the 
guide,  not  unkindly.  She  turned  to  Mrs.  Lancaster.  "I 
don't  know  as  you  can  make  much  of  her.  Sometimes  she's 
right  nighty." 

The  sick  woman  turned  her  head  a  little  and  looked  at 
them  out  of  her  sunken  eyes. 

"Thank  you.  Won't  you  be  seated?"  she  said,  with  a 
politeness  and  a  softness  of  tone  that  sounded  almost  un 
canny  coming  from  such  a  source. 

"We  heard  that  you  were  sick,  and  have  come  to  see  if 
we  could  not  help  you,"  said  Mrs.  Lancaster,  in  a  tone  of 
sympathy,  leaning  over  the  bed. 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Rimmon,  in  his  full,  rich  voice,  which 
made  the  little  room  resound  ;  "it  is  our  high  province  to 
minister  to  the  sick,  and  through  the  kindness  of  this  dear 
lady  we  may  be  able  to  remove  you  to  more  commodious 
quarters— to  some  one  of  the  charitable  institutions  which 
noble  people  like  our  friend  here  have  endowed  for  such 
persons  as  yourself." 

Something  about  the  full-toned  voice  with  its  rising  in- 

422 


It  is  he!     Tis  he!"  she  cried. 


ALICE   LANCASTER   FINDS   PHRONY 

flection  caught  the  invalid's  attention,  and  she  turned  her 
eyes  on  him  with  a  quick  glance,  and,  half  raising  her  head, 
scanned  his  face  closely. 

"Mr.  Rimmon,  here,  may  be  able  to  help  you  in  other 
ways  too,"  Mrs.  Lancaster  again  began  ;  but  she  got  no  fur 
ther.  The  name  appeared  to  electrify  the  woman. 

With  a  shriek  she  sat  up  in  bed. 

"It  is  he  !  'Tis  he  ! "  she  cried.  "You  are  the  very  one. 
You  will  help  me,  won't  you?  You  will  find  him  and 
bring  him  back  to  me?"  She  reached  out  her  thin  arms 
to  him  in  an  agony  of  supplication. 

"I  will  help  you,— I  shall  be  glad  to  do  so,— but  whom 
am  I  to  bring  back?  How  can  I  help  you? " 

"My  husband— Ferdy— Mr.  Wickersham.  I  am  the  girl 
you  married  that  night  to  Ferdy  Wickersham.  Don't  you 
remember  ?  You  will  bring  him  back  to  me  ?  I  know  he 
would  come  if  he  knew." 

The  effect  that  her  words,  and  even  more  her  earnestness, 
produced  was  remarkable.  Mrs.  Lancaster  stood  in  speech 
less  astonishment. 

Mr.  Rimmon  for  a  moment  turned  ashy  pale.  Then  he 
recovered  himself. 

"She  is  quite  mad,"  he  said  in  a  low  tone  to  Mrs.  Lan 
caster.  "I  think  we  had  better  go.  She  should  be  removed 
to  an  asylum." 

But  Mrs.  Lancaster  could  not  go.  Just  then  the  woman 
stretched  out  her  arms  to  her. 

"You  will  help  me?  You  are  a  lady.  I  loved  him  so. 
I  gave  up  all  for  him.  He  married  me.  Didn't  you  marry 
us,  sir?  Say  you  did.  Mr.  Plume  lost  the  paper,  but  you 
will  give  me  another,  won't  you?" 

The  commiseration  in  Mr.  Rimmon's  pale  face  grew  deeper 
and  deeper.  He  rolled  his  eyes  and  shook  his  head  sadly. 

"Quite  mad— quite  mad,"  he  said  in  an  undertone.  And, 
indeed,  the  next  moment  it  appeared  but  too  true,  for  with 
a  laugh  the  poor  creature  began  a  babble  of  her  child  and 
its  beauty.  "Just  like  its  father.  Dark  eyes  and  brown 

423 


GORDON   KEITH 

hair.  Won't  he  be  glad  to  see  it  when  he  comes?  Have 
you  children  !  "  she  suddenly  asked  Mrs.  Lancaster. 

"No."     She  shook  her  head. 

Then  a  strange  thing  happened. 

"I  am  so  sorry  for  you/'  the  poor  woman  said.  And  the 
next  second  she  added :  "I  want  to  show  mine  to  Alice 
Yorke.  She  is  the  only  lady  I  know  in  New  York.  I  used 
to  know  her  when  I  was  a  young  girl,  and  I  used  to  be 
jealous  of  her,  because  I  thought  Ferdy  was  in  love  with 
her.  But  he  was  not,  never  a  bit." 

"Come  away,"  said  Mr.  Kimmon  to  Mrs.  Lancaster.  "She 
is  crazy  and  may  become  violent." 

But  he  was  too  late ;  the  whole  truth  was  dawning  on 
Mrs.  Lancaster.  A  faint  likeness  had  come  to  her,  a  mem 
ory  of  a  far-back  time.  She  ignored  him,  and  stepped 
closer  to  the  bed. 

"What  is  your  name?  "  she  asked  in  a  kind  voice,  bending 
toward  the  woman  and  taking  her  hand. 

"Euphronia  Tripper  j  but  I  am  now  Mrs.  Wickersham. 
He  married  us."  She  turned  her  deep  eyes  on  Mr.  Kimmon. 
At  sight  of  him  a  change  came  over  her  face. 

"Where  is  my  husband?"  she  demanded.  "I  wrote  to 
you  to  bring  him.  Won't  you  bring  him  !  " 

"Quite  mad— quite  mad  !"  repeated  Mr.  Rimmon,  shak 
ing  his  head  solemnly,  and  turning  his  gaze  on  Mrs.  Lan 
caster.  But  he  saw  his  peril.  Mrs.  Lancaster  took  no 
notice  of  him.  She  began  to  talk  to  the  woman  at  the 
door,  and  gave  her  a  few  directions,  together  with  some 
money.  Then  she  advanced  once  more  to  the  bed. 

"I  want  to  make  you  comfortable.  I  will  send  some  one 
to  take  care  of  you."  She  shook  hands  with  her  softly, 
pulled  down  her  veil,  and  then,  half  turning  to  Mr.  Rim 
mon,  said  quietly,  "I  am  ready." 

As  they  stepped  into  the  street,  Mr.  Rimmon  observed 
at  a  little  distance  a  man  who  had  something  familiar 
about  him,  but  the  next  second  he  passed  out  of  sight. 

Mrs.  Lancaster  walked  silently  down  the  dirty  street 

424 


ALICE   LANCASTER   FINDS   PHRONY 

without  turning  her  head  or  speaking  to  the  preacher,  who 
stepped  along  a  little  behind  her,  his  mind  full  of  misgiving. 

Mr.  Rimmon,  perhaps,  did  as  hard  thinking  in  those  few 
minutes  as  he  had  ever  done  during  the  whole  course  of  his 
life.  It  was  a  serious  and  delicate  position.  His  reputa 
tion,  his  position,  perhaps  even  his  profession,  depended  on 
the  result,  He  must  sound  his  companion  and  placate  her 
at  any  cost. 

"That  is  one  of  the  saddest  spectacles  I  ever  saw,"  he 
began. 

To  this  Mrs.  Lancaster  vouchsafed  no  reply. 

"She  is  quite  mad." 

"No  wonder ! " 

"Ah,  yes.     What  do  you  think  of  her ?  " 

"That  she  is  Ferdy  Wickershani's  wife— or  ought  to  be." 

"Ah,  yes."  Here  was  a  gleam  of  light.  "But  she  is  so 
insane  that  very  little  reliance  should  be  placed  on  any 
thing  that  she  says.  In  such  instances,  you  know,  women 
make  the  most  preposterous  statements  and  believe  them. 
In  her  condition,  she  might  just  as  well  have  claimed  me 
for  her  husband." 

Mrs.  Lancaster  recognized  this,  and  looked  just  a  little 
relieved.  She  turned  as  if  about  to  speak,  but  shut  her 
lips  tightly  and  walked  on  to  the  waiting  carriage.  And 
during  the  rest  of  the  return  home  she  scarcely  uttered  a 
word. 

An  hour  later  Ferdy  Wickersham  was  seated  in  his  pri 
vate  office,  when  Mr.  Rimmon  walked  in. 

Wickersham  greeted  him  with  more  courtesy  than  he 
usually  showed  him. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "what  is  it!" 

"Well,  it's  come." 

Wickersham  laughed  unmirthfully.  "What  ?  You  have 
been  found  out?  Which  commandment  have  you  been 
caught  violating?  " 

"No ;  it's  you,"  said  Mr.  Rimmon,  his  eyes  on  Wicker 
sham,  with  a  gleam  of  retaliation  in  them.  "Your  wife 

425 


GORDON   KEITH 

has  turned  up.'7  He  was  gratified  to  see  Wickersham's 
cold  face  turn  white.  It  was  a  sweet  revenge. 

"My  wife !  I  have  no  wife."  Wickersham  looked  him 
steadily  in  the  eyes. 

"You  had  one,  and  she  is  in  town.'7 

"I  have  no  wife,"  repeated  Wickersham,  firmly,  not 
taking  his  eyes  from  the  clergyman's  face.  What  he  saw 
there  did  not  satisfy  him.  "I  have  your  statement." 

The  other  hesitated  and  reflected. 

"I  wish  you  would  give  me  that  back.  I  was  in  great 
distress  of  mind  when  I  gave  you  that." 

"You  did  not  give  it,"  said  Wickersham.  "You  sold  it." 
His  lip  curled. 

"I  was— what  you  said  you  were  when  it  occurred," 
said  Mr.  Rimmon.  "I  was  not  altogether  responsible." 

"You  were  sober  enough  to  make  me  carry  a  thousand 
shares  of  weak  stock  for  you  till  yesterday,  when  it  fell 
twenty  points,"  said  Wickersham.  "Oh,  I  guess  you  were 
sober  enough." 

"She  is  in  town,"  said  Bimmon,  in  a  dull  voice. 

"Who  says  so  I" 

"I  have  seen  her." 

"Where  is  she?" — indifferently. 

"She  is  ill.     She  is  mad." 

Wickersham's  face  settled  a  little.  His  eyes  blinked  as 
if  a  blow  had  been  aimed  at  him  nearly.  Then  he  recovered 
his  poise. 

"How  mad?" 

"As  mad  as  a  March  hare." 

"You  can  attend  to  it,"  he  said,  looking  the  clergyman 
full  in  the  face.  "I  don't  want  her  to  suffer.  There  will 
be  some  expense.  Can  you  get  her  into  a  comfortable  place 
for— for  a  thousand  dollars'?" 

"I  will  try.  The  poor  creature  would  be  better  off," 
said  the  other,  persuading  himself.  "She  cannot  last  long. 
She  is  a  very  ill  woman." 

Wickersham  either  did  not  hear  or  pretended  not  to  hear. 

426 


ALICE   LANCASTEK   FINDS   PHKONY 

"You  go  ahead  and  do  it.  I  will  send  you  the  money 
the  day  after  it  is  done/7  he  said.  "  Money  is  very  tight 
to-day,  almost  a  panic  at  the  board." 

"That  stock?     You  will  not  trouble  me  about  it?  " 

Wickersham  growled  something  about  being  very  busy, 
and  rose  and  bowed  the  visitor  out.  The  two  men  shook 
hands  formally  at  the  door  of  the  inner  office  ;  but  it  was  a 
malevolent  look  that  Wickersham  shot  at  the  other's  stout 
back  as  he  walked  out. 

As  Mr.  Kimmon  came  out  of  the  office  he  caught  sight  of 
the  short,  stout  man  he  had  seen  in  the  street  to  which  he 
had  gone  with  Mrs.  Lancaster.  Suddenly  the  association  of 
ideas  brought  to  him  Keith's  threat.  He  was  shadowed. 
A  perspiration  broke  out  over  him. 

Wickersham  went  back  to  his  private  office,  and  began 
once  more  on  his  books.  What  he  saw  there  was  what  he 
began  to  see  on  all  sides :  ruin.  He  sat  back  in  his  chair 
and  reflected.  His  face,  which  had  begun  to  grow  thinner 
of  late,  as  well  as  harder,  settled  more  and  more  until  it 
looked  like  gray  stone.  Presently  he  rose,  and  locking  his 
desk  carefully,  left  his  office. 

As  he  reached  the  street,  a  man,  who  had  evidently 
been  waiting  for  him,  walked  up  and  spoke  to  him.  He 
was  a  tall,  thin,  shabby  man,  with  a  face  and  figure  on  which 
drink  was  written  ineffaceably.  Wickersham,  without 
looking  at  him,  made  an  angry  gesture  and  hastened  his 
step.  The  other,  however,  did  the  same,  and  at  his  shoul 
der  began  to  whine. 

"Mr.  Wickersham,  just  a  word." 

"Get  out,"  said  Wickersham,  still  walking  on.  "I  told 
you  never  to  speak  to  me  again." 

"I  have  a  paper  that  you'd  give  a  million  dollars  to  get 
hold  of." 

Wickersham's  countenance  showed  not  the  least  change. 

"If  you  don't  keep  away  from  here,  I'll  hand  you  over 
to  the  police." 

"If  you'll  just  give  me  a  dollar  I'll  swear  never  to  trouble 

427 


GORDON   KEITH 

you  again.  I  have  not  had  a  mouthful  to  eat  to-day.  You 
won't  let  me  starve?  " 

"Yes,  I  will.  Starve  and  be to  you  ! "  He  suddenly 

stopped  and  faced  the  other.  "Plume,  I  wouldn't  give  you 
a  cent  if  you  were  actually  starving.  Do  you  see  that 
policeman?  If  you  don't  leave  me  this  minute,  I'll  hand 
you  over  to  him.  And  if  you  ever  speak  to  me  again  or 
write  to  me  again,  or  if  I  find  you  on  the  street  about  here, 
I'll  arrest  you  and  send  you  down  for  blackmail  and  steal 
ing.  Now  do  you  understand?" 

The  man  turned  and  silently  shuffled  away,  his  face 
working  and  a  glint  in  his  bleared  eye. 

An  evening  or  two  later  Dave  Dennison  reported  to 
Keith  that  he  had  found  Phrony.  Dave's  face  was  black 
with  hate,  and  his  voice  was  tense  with  suppressed  feeling. 

"How  did  you  find  her?"  inquired  Keith. 

"Shadowed  the  preacher.  Knew  he  and  that  man  had 
been  confabbin'.  She's  clean  gone,"  he  added.  "They've 
destroyed  her.  She  didn't  know  me."  His  face  worked, 
and  an  ominous  fire  burned  in  his  eyes. 

"We  must  get  her  home." 

"She  can't  go.  You'd  never  know  her.  We'll  have  to 
put  her  in  an  asylum." 

Something  in  his  voice  made  Keith  look  at  him.  He 
met  his  gaze. 

"They're  getting  ready  to  do  it— that  man  and  the 
preacher.  But  I  don't  mean  'em  to  have  anything  more 
to  do  with  her.  They've  done  their  worst.  Now  let  'em 
keep  away  from  her." 

Keith  nodded  his  acquiescence. 

That  evening  Keith  went  to  see  a  doctor  he  knew,  and 
next  day,  through  his  intervention,  Phrony  was  removed 
to  the  private  ward  of  an  asylum,  where  she  was  made  as 
comfortable  as  possible. 

It  was  evident  that  she  had  not  much  longer  to  stay. 
But  God  had  been  merciful  to  her.  She  babbled  of  her 

428 


ALICE   LANCASTER   FINDS   PHRONY 

baby  and  her  happiness  at  seeing  it  soon.  And  a  small, 
strongly  built  man  with  grave  eyes  sat  by  her  in  the  am 
bulance,  and  told  her  stories  of  it  with  a  fertility  of  inven 
tion  that  amazed  the  doctor  who  had  her  in  charge. 

When  Mr.  Rimmon's  agents  called  next  day  to  make  the 
preliminary  arrangements  for  carrying  out  his  agreement 
with  Wickersham,  they  found  the  room  empty.  The  woman 
who  had  charge  of  the  house  had  been  duly  "fixed"  by 
Dave,  and  she  told  a  story  sufficiently  plausible  to  pass 
muster.  The  sick  woman  had  disappeared  at  night  and 
had  gone  she  did  not  know  where.  She  was  afraid  she 
might  have  made  away  with  herself,  as  she  was  out  of  her 
head.  This  was  verified,  and  this  was  the  story  that  went 
back  to  Mr.  Rimmon  and  finally  to  Ferdy  Wickersham. 
A  little  later  the  body  of  a  woman  was  found  in  the  river, 
and  though  there  was  nothing  to  identify  her,  it  was  stated 
in  one  of  the  papers  that  there  was  good  ground  for  believ 
ing  that  she  was  the  demented  woman  whose  disappear 
ance  had  been  reported  the  week  before. 


429 


CHAPTER   XXIX 
THE  MARRIAGE   CERTIFICATE 

ONE  day  after  Phrony  was  removed,  Keith  was  sitting  in 
the  office  he  had  taken  in  New  York,  working  on  the 
final  papers  which  were  to  be  exchanged  when  his  deal 
should  be  completed,  when  there  was  a  tap  at  the  door. 
A  knock  at  the  door  is  almost  as  individual  as  a  voice. 
There  was  something  about  this  knock  that  awakened 
associations  in  Keith's  mind.  It  was  not  a  woman's  tap, 
yet  Terpy  and  Phrony  Tripper  both  sprang  into  Keith's 
mind. 

Almost  at  the  same  moment  the  door  opened  slowly,  and 
pausing  on  the  threshold  stood  J.  Quincy  Plume.  But  how 
changed  from  the  Mr.  Plume  of  yore,  the  jovial  and  jocund 
manager  of  the  Gumbolt  Whistle,  or  the  florid  and  flowery 
editor  of  the  New  Leeds  Clarion  ! 

The  apparition  in  the  door  was  a  shabby  representation 
of  what  J.  Quincy  Plume  had  been  in  his  palmy  days.  He 
bore  the  last  marks  of  extreme  dissipation ;  his  eyes  were 
dull,  his  face  bloated,  and  his  hair  thin  and  long.  His 
clothes  looked  as  if  they  had  served  him  by  night  as  well 
as  by  day  for  a  long  time.  His  shoes  were  broken,  and  his 
hat,  once  the  emblem  of  his  station  and  high  spirits,  was 
battered  and  rusty. 

"How  are  you,  Mr.  Keith?"  he  began  boldly  enough. 
But  his  assumption  of  something  of  his  old  air  of  bravado 
died  out  under  Keith's  icy  and  steady  gaze,  and  he  stepped 
only  inside  of  the  room,  and,  taking  off  his  hat,  waited 
uneasily. 

430 


THE   MARRIAGE   CERTIFICATE 

"What  do  you  want  of  me?"  demanded  Keith,  leaning 
back  in  his  chair  and  looking  at  him  coldly. 

"Well,  I  thought  I  would  like  to  have  a  little  talk  with 
you  about  a  matter—" 

Keith,  without  taking  his  eyes  from  his  face,  shook  his 
head  slowly. 

"About  a  friend  of  yours,"  continued  Plume. 

Again  Keith  shook  his  head  very  slowly. 

"I  have  a  little  information  that  might  be  of  use  to  you 
—that  you'd  like  to  have." 

"I  don't  want  it." 

"You  would  if  you  knew  what  it  was." 

"No." 

"Yes,  you  would.  It's  about  Squire  Rawson's  grand 
daughter—about  her  marriage  to  that  man  Wickersham." 

"How  much  do  you  want  for  it?"  demanded  Keith. 

Plume  advanced  slowly  into  the  room  and  looked  at  a 
chair. 

"Don't  sit  down.  How  much  do  you  want  for  it?"  re 
peated  Keith. 

"Well,  you  are  a  rich  man  now,  and—" 

"I  thought  so."  Keith  rose.  "However  rich  I  am,  I 
will  not  pay  you  a  cent."  He  motioned  Plume  to  the  door. 

"Oh,  well,  if  that's  the  way  you  take  it ! "  Plume  drew 
himself  up  and  stalked  to  the  door.  Keith  reseated  him 
self  and  again  took  up  his  pen. 

At  the  door  Plume  turned  and  saw  that  Keith  had  put 
him  out  of  his  mind  and  was  at  work  again. 

"Yes,  Keith,  if  you  knew  what  information  I  have—" 

Keith  sat  up  suddenly. 

"Go  out  of  here!" 

"If  you'd  only  listen— " 

Keith  stood  up,  with  a  sudden  flame  in  his  eyes. 

"Go  on,  I  say.  If  you  do  not,  I  will  put  you  out.  It  is 
as  much  as  I  can  do  to  keep  my  hands  off  you.  You  could 
not  say  a  word  that  I  would  believe  on  any  subject." 

"I  will  swear  to  this." 

431 


GORDON   KEITH 

"Your  oath  would  add  nothing  to  it." 

Plume  waited,  and  after  a  moment's  reflection  began  in 
a  different  key. 

"Mr.  Keith,  I  did  not  come  here  to  sell  you  anything—" 

"Yes,  you  did." 

"No,  I  did  not.  I  did  not  come— only  for  that.  If  I 
could  have  sold  it,  I  don't  say  I  wouldn't,  for  I  need  money 
—the  Lord  knows  how  much  I  need  it !  I  have  not  a  cent 
in  the  world  to  buy  me  a  mouthful  to  eat — or  drink.  I 
came  to  tell  you  something  that  only  I  know—" 

"I  have  told  you  that  I  would  not  believe  you  on  oath," 
began  Keith,  impatiently. 

"But  you  will,  for  it  is  true  ;  and  I  tell  it  not  out  of  love 
for  you  (though  I  never  disliked— I  always  liked  you— 
would  have  liked  you  if  you'd  have  let  me),  but  out  of  hate 
for  that—.  That  man  has  treated  me  shamefully— worse 
than  a  yellow  dog  !  I've  done  for  that  man  what  I  wouldn't 
have  done  for  my  brother.  You  know  what  I've  done  for 
him,  Mr.  Keith,  and  now  when  he's  got  no  further  use  for 
me,  he  kicks  me  out  into  the  street  and  threatens  to  give  me 
to  the  police  if  I  come  to  him  again." 

Keith's  expression  changed.  There  was  no  doubt  now 
that  for  once  Quincy  Plume  was  sincere.  The  hate  in  his 
bleared  eyes  and  bloated  face  was  unfeigned. 

"Give  me  to  the  police  !  I'll  give  him  to  the  police  ! " 
he  broke  out  in  a  sudden  flame  at  Keith's  glance  of  inspec 
tion.  "He  thinks  he  has  been  very  smart  in  taking  from 
me  all  the  papers.  He  thinks  no  one  will  believe  me  on 
my  mere  word,  but  I've  got  a  paper  he  don't  know  of." 
His  hand  went  to  the  breast  of  his  threadbare  coat  with  an 
angry  clutch.  "I've  got  the  marriage  lines  of  his  wife." 

One  word  caught  Keith,  and  his  interest  awoke. 

"What  wife?"  he  asked  as  indifferently  as  he  could. 

"His  wife,— his  lawful  wife,— Squire  Rawson's  grand 
daughter,  Phrony  Tripper.  I  was  at  the  weddin'— I  was 
a  witness.  He  thought  he  could  get  out  of  it,  and  he  was 
half  drunk  5  but  he  married  her." 

432 


THE   MARRIAGE   CERTIFICATE 

"Where?     When?    You  were  present ?" 

"Yes.  They  were  married  by  a  preacher  named  Rim- 
mon,  and  he  gave  me  her  certificate,  and  I  swore  to  her  I 
had  lost  it :  he  got  me  to  do  it— the  scoundrel !  He  wanted 
me  to  give  it  to  him ;  but  I  swore  to  him  I  had  lost  it,  too. 
I  thought  it  would  be  of  use  some  of  these  days."  A  gleam 
of  the  old  craftiness  shone  in  his  eyes. 

Keith  gazed  at  the  man  in  amazement.  His  unblushing 
effrontery  staggered  him. 

"Would  you  mind  letting  me  see  that  certificate?" 

Plume  hesitated  and  licked  his  lips  like  a  dog  held  back 
from  a  bone.  Keith  noted  it. 

"I  do  not  want  you  to  think  that  I  will  give  you  any 
money  for  it,  for  I  will  not,"  he  added  quietly,  his  gray 
eyes  on  him. 

For  a  moment  Plume  was  so  taken  aback  that  his  face 
became  a  blank.  Then,  whether  it  was  that  the  very  frank 
ness  of  the  speech  struck  home  to  him  or  that  he  wished  to 
secure  a  fragment  of  esteem  from  Keith,  he  recovered  him 
self. 

"I  don't  expect  any  money  for  it,  Mr.  Keith.  I  don't 
want  any  money  for  it.  I  will  not  only  show  you  this 
paper,  I  will  give  it  to  you." 

"It  is  not  yours  to  give,"  said  Keith.  "It  belongs  to 
Mrs.  Wickersham.  I  will  see  that  she  gets  it  if  you  deliver 
it  to  me." 

"That's  so,"  ejaculated  Plume,  as  if  the  thought  had 
never  occurred  to  him  before.  "I  want  her  to  have  it,  but 
you'd  better  keep  it  for  her.  That  man  will  get  it  away 
from  her.  You  don't  know  him  as  I  do.  You  don't  know 
what  he'd  do  on  a  pinch.  I  tell  you  he  is  a  gambler  for 
life.  I  have  seen  him  sit  at  the  board  and  stake  sums  that 
would  have  made  me  rich  for  life.  Besides,"  he  added,  as 
if  he  needed  some  other  reason  for  giving  it  up,  "I  am 
afraid  if  he  knew  I  had  it  he'd  get  it  from  me  in  some 
way." 

He  walked  forward  and  handed  the  paper  to  Keith,  who 

433 


GORDON   KEITH 

saw  at  a  glance  that  it  was  what  Plume  had  declared  it  to 
be :  a  marriage  certificate,  dirty  and  worn,  but  still  with 
signatures  that  appeared  to  be  genuine.  Keith's  eyes 
flashed  with  satisfaction  as  he  read  the  name  of  the  Kev- 
William  H.  Kimmon  and  Plume's  name,  evidently  written 
with  the  same  ink  at  the  same  time. 

"Now,"  said  Keith,  looking  up  from  the  paper,  "I  will 
see  that  Mrs.  Wickersham's  family  is  put  in  possession  of 
this  paper." 

"Couldn't  you  lend  me  a  small  sum,  Mr.  Keith,"  asked 
Plume,  wheedlingly,  "just  for  old  times7  sake.?  I  know  I 
have  done  you  wrong  and  given  you  good  cause  to  hate 
me,  but  it  wasn't  my  fault,  an'  I've  done  you  a  favor  to-day, 
anyhow." 

Keith  looked  at  him  for  a  second,  and  put  his  hand  in 
his  pocket. 

"I'll  pay  you  back,  as  sure  as  I  live—"  began  Plume, 
cajolingly. 

"No,  you  will  not,"  said  Keith,  sharply.  "You  could  not 
if  you  would,  and  would  not  if  you  could,  and  I  would  not 
lend  you  a  cent  or  have  a  business  transaction  with  you  for 
all  the  money  in  New  York.  I  will  give  you  this— for  the 
person  you  have  most  injured  in  life.  Now,  don't  thank 
me  for  it,  but  go." 

Plume  took,  with  glistening  eyes  and  profuse  thanks? 
the  bills  that  were  handed  out  to  him,  and  shambled  out  of 
the  room. 

That  night  Keith,  having  shown  the  signatures  to  a 
good  expert,  who  pronounced  them  genuine,  telegraphed 
Dr.  Balsam  to  notify  Squire  Rawson  that  he  had  the  proof 
of  Phrony's  marriage.  The  Doctor  went  over  to  see  the  old 
squire.  He  mentioned  the  matter  casually,  for  he  knew  his 
man.  But  as  well  as  he  knew  him,  he  found  himself  mis 
taken  in  him. 

"I  know  that,"  he  said  quietly,  "but  what  I  want  is  to 
find  Phrony."  His  deep  eyes  glowed  for  a  while  and  sud 
denly  flamed.  "I'm  a  rich  man,"  he  broke  out,  "but  I'd 

434 


THE  MAKKIAGE   CERTIFICATE 

give  every  dollar  I  ever  owned  to  get  her  back,  and  to  get 
my  hand  once  on  that  man." 

The  deep  fire  glowed  for  a  while  and  then  grew  dull 
again,  and  the  old  man  sank  back  into  his  former  grim 
silence. 

The  Doctor  looked  at  him  commiseratingly.  Keith  had 
written  him  fully  of  Phrony  and  her  condition,  and  he  had 
decided  to  say  nothing  to  the  old  grandfather. 


435 


CHAPTER  XXX 
"SMUGGLERS'   ROOST" 

TTTICKERSHAM  began  to  renew  his  visits  to  Mrs. 
f  ?  Wentworth,  which  he  had  discontinued  for  a  time 
when  he  had  found  himself  repulsed.  The  repulse  had 
stimulated  his  desire  to  win  her;  but  he  had  a  further 
motive.  Among  other  things,  she  might  ask  for  an  ac 
counting  of  the  money  he  had  had  of  her,  and  he  wanted 
more  money.  He  must  keep  up  appearances,  or  others 
might  pounce  upon  him. 

When  he  began  again,  it  was  on  a  new  line.  He  appealed 
to  her  sympathy.  If  he  had  forgotten  himself  so  far  as  to 
ask  for  more  than  friendship,  she  would,  he  hoped,  forgive 
him.  She  could  not  find  a  truer  friend.  He  would  never 
offend  her  so  again  ;  but  he  must  have  her  friendship,  or  he 
might  do  something  desperate. 

Fortunately  for  him,  Wickersham  had  a  good  advocate  at 
eourt.  Mrs.  Wentworth  was  very  lonely  and  unhappy  just 
then,  and  the  plea  prevailed.  She  forgave  him,  and  Wicker- 
sham  again  began  to  be  a  visitor  at  the  house. 

But  deeper  than  these  lay  another  motive.  While  fol 
lowing  Mrs.  Wentworth  he  had  been  thrown  with  Lois 
Huntington.  Her  freshness,  her  beauty,  the  charm  of  her 
girlish  figure,  the  unaffected  gayety  of  her  spirits,  attracted 
him,  and  he  had  paused  in  his  other  pursuit  to  captivate 
her,  as  he  might  have  stepped  aside  to  pluck  a  flower  be 
side  the  way.  To  his  astonishment,  she  declined  the  honor ; 

436 


•'SNUGGLERS'  ROOST" 

more,  she  laughed  at  him.  It  teased  him  to  find  himself 
balked  by  a  mere  country  girl,  and  from  this  moment  he 
looked  on  her  with  new  eyes.  The  unexpected  revelation 
of  a  deeper  nature  than  most  he  had  known  astonished  him. 

Since  their  interview  on  the  street  Lois  received  him  with 
more  friendliness  than  she  had  hitherto  shown  him.  In 
fact,  the  house  was  a  sad  one  these  days,  and  any  diversion 
was  welcome.  The  discontinuance  of  Keith's  visits  had 
been  so  sudden  that  Lois  had  felt  it  all  the  more.  She 
had  no  idea  of  the  reason,  and  set  it  down  to  the  score  of 
his  rumored  success  with  Mrs.  Lancaster.  She,  too,  could 
play  the  game  of  pique,  and  she  did  it  well.  She  accord 
ingly  showed  Wickersham  more  favor  than  she  had  ever 
shown  him  before.  While,  therefore,  he  kept  up  his  visits 
to  Mrs.  Norman,  he  was  playing  all  the  time  his  other 
game  with  her  cousin,  knowing  the  world  well  enough  to 
be  sure  that  it  would  not  believe  his  attentions  to  the  latter 
had  any  serious  object.  In  this  he  was  not  mistaken. 
The  buzz  that  coupled  his  name  with  Mrs.  Wentworth's 
was  soon  as  loud  as  ever. 

Finally  Lois  decided  to  take  matters  in  her  own  hands. 
She  would  appeal  to  Mr.  Wickersham  himself.  He  had 
talked  to  her  of  late  in  a  manner  quite  different  from  the 
sneering  cynicism  which  he  aired  when  she  first  met  him. 
In  fact,  no  one  could  hold  higher  sentiments  than  he  had 
expressed  about  women  or  about  life.  Mr.  Keith  himself 
had  never  held  loftier  ideals  than  Mr.  Wickersham  had 
declared  to  her.  She  began  to  think  that  the  tittle-tattle 
that  she  got  bits  of  whenever  she  saw  Mrs.  Nailor  or  some 
others  was,  perhaps,  after  all,  slander,  and  that  Mr.  Wicker 
sham  was  not  aware  of  the  injury  he  was  doing  Mrs.  Went- 
worth.  She  would  appeal  to  his  better  nature.  She  lay  in 
wait  several  times  without  being  able  to  meet  him  in  a 
way  that  would  not  attract  attention.  At  length  she  wrote 
him  a  note,  asking  him  to  meet  her  on  the  street,  as  she 
wished  to  speak  to  him  privately. 

When  Wickersham  met  her  that  afternoon  at  the  point 

437 


GORDON   KEITH 

she  had  designated,  not  far  from  the  Park,  he  had  a  curi 
ous  expression  on  his  cold  face. 

She  was  dressed  in  a  perfectly  simple,  dark  street-costume 
which  fitted  without  a  wrinkle  her  willowy  figure,  and  a 
big  black  hat  with  a  single  large  feather  shaded  her  face 
and  lent  a  shadow  to  her  eyes  which  gave  them  an  added 
witchery.  Wickersham  thought  he  had  never  known  her 
so  pretty  or  so  chic.  He  had  not  seen  as  handsome  a  figure 
that  day,  and  he  had  sat  at  the  club  window  and  scanned 
the  avenue  with  an  eye  for  fine  figures. 

She  held  out  her  hand  in  the  friendliest  way,  and  look 
ing  into  his  eyes  quite  frankly,  said,  with  the  most  natural 
of  voices : 

"Well,  I  know  you  think  I  have  gone  crazy,  and  are 
consumed  with  curiosity  to  know  what  I  wanted  with  you  ? " 

"I  don't  know  about  the  curiosity,"  he  said,  smiling  at 
her.  "Suppose  we  call  it  interest.  You  don't  have  to  be 
told  now  that  I  shall  be  only  too  delighted  if  I  am  fortu 
nate  enough  to  be  of  any  service  to  you."  He  bent  down 
and  looked  so  deep  into  her  eyes  that  she  drew  a  little  back. 

"The  fact  is,  I  am  plotting  a  little  treason,"  she  said,  with 
a  blush,  slightly  embarrassed. 

"By  Jove !  she  is  a  real  beauty,"  thought  Wickersham, 
noting,  with  the  eye  of  a  connoisseur,  the  white,  round 
throat,  the  dainty  curves  of  the  slim  figure,  and  the  purity 
of  the  oval  face,  in  which  the  delicate  color  came  and  went 
under  his  gaze. 

"Well,  if  this  be  treason,  I'll  make  the  most  of  it,"  he  said, 
with  his  most  fascinating  smile.  "Treasons,  stratagems, 
and  spoils  are  my  game." 

"But  this  may  be  treason  partly  against  yourself?  "  She 
gave  a  half-glance  up  at  him  to  see  how  he  took  this. 

"I  am  quite  used  to  this,  too,  my  dear  girl,  I  assure  you," 
he  said,  wondering  more  and  more.  She  drew  back  a  little 
at  the  familiarity. 

"Come  and  let  us  stroll  in  the  Park,"  he  suggested,  and 
though  she  demurred  a  little,  he  pressed  her,  saying  it  was 

438 


"SNUGGLEKS'  ROOST" 

quieter  there,  and  she  would  have  a  better  opportunity  of 
showing  him  how  he  could  help  her. 

They  walked  along  talking,  he  dealing  in  light  badinage 
of  a  flattering  kind,  which  both  amused  and  disturbed  her 
a  little,  and  presently  he  turned  into  a  somewhat  secluded 
alley,  where  he  found  a  bench  sheltered  and  shadowed  by 
the  overhanging  boughs  of  a  tree. 

"Well,  here  is  a  good  place  for  confidences."  He  took 
her  hand  and,  seating  himself,  drew  her  down  beside  him. 
"I  will  pretend  that  you  are  a  charming  dryad,  and  I— 
what  shall  I  be?" 

"My  friend,"  she  said  calmly,  and  drew  her  hand  away 
from  him. 

"  Votre  ami  ?  Avec  tout  mon  cosur.  I  will  be  your  best 
friend."  He  held  out  his  hand. 

"Then  you  will  do  what  I  ask?  You  are  also  a  good 
friend  of  Mrs.  Wentworth  f  " 

A  little  cloud  flitted  over  his  face  ;  but  she  did  not  see  it. 

"We  do  not  speak  of  the  absent  when  the  present  holds 
all  we  care  for,"  he  said  lightly. 

She  took  no  notice  of  this,  but  went  on  :  "I  do  not  think 
you  would  wittingly  injure  any  one." 

He  laughed  softly.  "Injure  any  one?  Why,  of  course 
I  would  not— I  could  not.  My  life  is  spent  in  making 
people  have  a  pleasant  time— though  some  are  wicked 
enough  to  malign  me." 

"Well,"  she  said  slowly,  "I  do  not  think  you  ought  to 
come  to  Cousin  Louise's  so  often.  You  ought  not  to  pay 
Cousin  Louise  as  much  attention  as  you  do." 

"What ! "     He  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed. 

"You  do  not  know  what  an  injury  you  are  doing  her," 
she  continued  gravely.  "You  cannot  know  how  people  are 
talking  about  it?" 

"Oh,  don't  I?"  he  laughed.  Then,  as  out  of  the  tail  of 
his  eye  he  saw  her  troubled  face,  he  stopped  and  made  his 
face  grave.  "And  you  think  I  am  injuring  her  ! "  She  did 
notice  the  covert  cynicism. 

439 


GORDON   KEITH 

"I  am  sure  you  are— unwittingly.  You  do  not  know 
how  unhappy  she  is." 

An  expression  very  like  content  stole  into  his  dark  eyes. 

Lois  continued : 

"She  has  not  been  wise.  She  has  been  foolish  and  un 
yielding  and— oh,  I  hate  to  say  anything  against  her,  for 
she  has  been  very  kind  to  me  !— She  has  allowed  others  to 
make  trouble  between  her  and  her  husband ;  but  she  loves 
him  dearly  for  all  that— and— 

"Oh,  she  does  !  You  think  so  ! "  said  Wickersham,  with 
an  ugly  little  gleam  under  his  half-closed  lids  and  a  shrewd 
glance  at  Lois. 

"Yes.  Oh,  yes,  I  am  sure  of  it.  I  know  it.  She  adores 
him." 

"She  does,  eh?" 

"Yes.  She  would  give  the  world  to  undo  what  she  has 
done  and  win  him  back." 

"She  would,  eh?"  Again  that  gleam  in  Wickersham's 
dark  eyes  as  they  slanted  a  glance  at  the  girl's  earnest  face. 

"I  think  she  had  no  idea  till— till  lately  how  people 
talked  about  her,  and  it  was  a  great  shock  to  her.  She  is 
a  very  proud  woman,  you  know  I " 

"Yes,"  he  assented,  "quite  proud." 

"She  esteems  you — your  friendship — and  likes  you  ever 
so  much,  and  all  that."  She  was  speaking  rapidly  now, 
her  sober  eyes  on  Wickersham's  face  with  an  appealing  look 
in  them.  "And  she  doesn't  want  to  do  anything  to— to 
wound  you  ;  but  I  think  you  ought  not  to  come  so  often  or 
see  her  in  a  way  to  make  people  talk— and  I  thought  I'd 
say  so  to  you."  A  smile  that  was  a  plea  for  sympathy 
flickered  in  her  eyes. 

Wickersham's  mind  had  been  busy.  This  explained  the 
change  in  Louise  Wentworth's  manner  of  late — ever  since 
he  had  made  the  bold  declaration  of  his  intention  to 
conquer  her.  Another  idea  suggested  itself.  Could  the 
girl  be  jealous  of  his  attentions  to  Mrs.  Wentworth?  He 
had  had  women  play  such  a  part ;.  but  none  was  like  this 

440 


"SMUGGLERS'  ROOST" 

girl.  If  it  was  a  game  it  was  a  deep  one.  He  took  his 
line,  and  when  she  ended  composed  his  voice  to  a  low 
tone  as  he  leant  toward  her. 

"My  dear  girl,  I  have  listened  to  every  word  you  said. 
I  am  shocked  to  hear  what  you  tell  me.  Of  course  I  know 
people  have  talked  about  me,— curse  them !  they  always 
will  talk,— but  I  had  no  idea  it  had  gone  so  far.  As  you 
know,  I  have  always  taken  Mrs.  Wentworth's  side  in  the 
unhappy  differences  between  her  and  her  husband.  This 
has  been  no  secret.  I  cannot  help  taking  the  side  of  the 
woman  in  any  controversy.  I  have  tried  to  stand  her 
friend,  notwithstanding  what  people  said.  Sometimes  I 
have  been  able  to  help  her.  But—"  He  paused  and  took 
n  long  breath,  his  eyes  on  the  ground.  Then,  leaning 
forward,  he  gazed  into  her  face. 

"What  would  you  say  if  I  should  tell  you  that  my  fre 
quent  visits  to  Mrs.  Wentworth's  house  were  not  to  see  her 
—entirely?"  He  felt  his  way  slowly,  watching  the  effect 
on  her.  It  had  no  effect.  She  did  not  understand  him. 

"What  do  you  mean?  " 

He  leant  over,  and  taking  hold  of  her  wrist  with  one 
hand,  he  put  his  other  arm  around  her.  "Lois,  can  you 
doubt  what  I  mean  ?  "  He  threw  an  unexpected  passion 
into  his  eyes  and  into  his  voice,— he  had  done  it  often  with 
success,— and  drew  her  suddenly  to  him. 

Taken  by  surprise,  she,  with  a  little  exclamation,  tried  to 
draw  away  from  him,  but  he  held  her  firmly. 

"Do  you  think  I  went  there  to  see  her?  Do  you  give 
me  no  credit  for  having  eyes— for  knowing  the  pret 
tiest,  sweetest,  dearest  little  girl  in  New  York?  I  must 
have  concealed  my  secret  better  than  I  thought.  Why, 
Lois,  it  is  you  I  have  been  after."  His  eyes  were  close  to 
hers  and  looked  deep  into  them. 

She  gave  an  exclamation  of  dismay  and  tried  to  rise. 
"Oh,  Mr.  Wickersham,  please  let  me  go!"  But  he  held 
her  fast. 

"Why,  of  course,  it  is  yourself." 

441 


GORDON    KEITH 

"Let  me  go— please  let  me  go,  Mr.  Wickersham,"  she 
exclaimed  as  she  struggled. 

"Oh,  now  don't  get  so  excited,"  he  said,  drawing  her  all 
the  closer  to  him,  and  holding  her  all  the  tighter.  "It  is 
not  becoming  to  your  beautiful  eyes.  Listen  to  me,  my  dar 
ling.  I  am  not  going  to  hurt  you.  I  love  you  too  much, 
little  girl,  and  I  want  your  love.  Sit  down.  Listen  to  me.'7 
He  tried  to  kiss  her,  but  his  lips  just  touched  her  face. 

"No  5 1  will  not  listen."  She  struggled  to  her  feet,  flushed 
and  panting,  but  Wickersham  rose  too. 

"I  will  kiss  you,  you  little  fool."  He  caught  her,  and 
clasping  her  with  both  arms,  kissed  her  twice  violently ; 
then,  as  she  gave  a  little  scream,  released  her.  "There  !" 
he  said.  As  he  did  so  she  straightened  herself  and  gave 
him  a  ringing  box  on  his  ear. 

"There  ! "     She  faced  him  with  blazing  eyes. 

Angry,  and  with  his  cheek  stinging,  Wickersham  seized 
her  again. 

"You  little  devil ! "  he  growled,  and  kissed  her  on  her 
cheek  again  and  again. 

As  he  let  her  go,  she  faced  him.  She  was  now  per 
fectly  calm. 

"You  are  not  a  gentleman,"  she  said  in  a  low,  level  tone, 
tears  of  shame  standing  in  her  eyes. 

For  answer  he  caught  her  again. 

Then  the  unexpected  happened.  At  that  moment  Keith 
turned  a  clump  of  shrubbery  a  few  paces  off,  that  shut  out 
the  alley  from  the  bench  which  Wickersham  had  selected. 
For  a  second  he  paused,  amazed.  Then,  as  he  took  in  the 
situation,  a  black  look  came  into  his  face. 

The  next  second  he  had  sprung  to  where  Wickersham 
stood,  and  seizing  him  by  the  collar,  jerked  him  around 
and  slapped  him  full  in  the  face. 

"You  hound ! "  He  caught  him  again,  the  light  of 
fury  in  his  eyes,  the  primal  love  of  fight  that  has  burned 
there  when  men  have  fought  for  a  woman  since  the  days  of 
Adam,  and  with  a  fierce  oath  hurled  him  spinning  back 

442 


"SNUGGLEKS'  KOOST" 

across  the  walk,  where  he  measured  his  length   on  the 
ground. 

Then  Keith  turned  to  the  girl : 

"Come  ;  I  will  see  you  home." 

The  noise  had  attracted  the  attention  of  others  besides 
Gordon  Keith.  Just  at  this  juncture  a  stout  policeman 
turned  the  curve  at  a  double-quick. 

As  he  did  so,  Wickersham  rose  and  slipped  away. 

"What  th'  devil  'rre  ye  doin'?"  the  officer  demanded 
in  a  rich  brogue  before  he  came  to  a  halt.  "I'll  stop  this 
racket.  I'll  run  ye  ivery  wan  in.  I've  got  ye  now,  me  foine 
leddy  ;  I've  been  waitin'  for  ye  for  some  time."  He  seized 
Lois  by  the  arm  roughly. 

"Let  her  go.  Take  your  hand  off  that  lady,  sir.  Don't 
you  dare  to  touch  her."  Keith  stepped  up  to  him  with  his 
eyes  flashing  and  hand  raised. 

"And  you  too.     I'll  tache  you  to  turn  this  park  into—" 

"Take  your  hand  off  her,  or  I'll  make  you  sorry  for  it." 

"Oh,  you  will!"  But  at  the  tone  of  authority  he  re 
leased  Lois. 

"What  is  your  name  t  Give  me  your  number.  I'll  have 
you  discharged  for  insulting  a  lady,"  said  Keith. 

"Oh,  me  name's  aall  right.  Me  name's  Mike  Doherty— 
Sergeant  Doherty.  I  guess  ye'll  find  it  on  the  rolls  right 
enough.  And  as  for  insultin'  a  leddy,  that's  what  I'm  goin' 
to  charrge  against  ye— that  and—" 

"Why,  Mike  Doherty!"  exclaimed  Keith.  "I  am  Mr. 
Keith-Gordon  Keith." 

"Mr.  Keith!  Gordon  Keith!"  The  big  officer  leant 
over  and  looked  at  Keith  in  the  gathering  dusk.  "Be  jab 
bers,  and  so  it  is!  Who's  your  leddy  friend?"  he  asked 
in  a  low  voice.  "Be  George,  she's  a  daisy  ! " 

Keith  stiffened.  The  blood  rushed  to  his  face,  and  he 
started  to  speak  sharply.  He,  however,  turned  to  Lois. 

"Miss  Huntington,  this  is  an  old  friend  of  mine.  This  is 
Mike  Doherty,  who  used  to  be  the  best  man  on  the  ship 
when  I  ran  the  blockade  as  a  boy." 

443 


GOKDON   KEITH 

"The  verry  same,"  said  Mike. 

"He  used  to  teach  me  boxing/'  continued  Keith. 

"I  taaught  him  the  left  upper-cut,"  nodded  the  sergeant. 

Keith  went  on  and  told  the  story  of  his  coming  on  a  man 
who  was  annoying  Miss  Huntington,  but  he  did  not  give 
his  name. 

"Did  ye  give  him  the  left  upper-cut?"  demanded  Ser 
geant  Doherty. 

"I  am  not  sure  that  I  did  not,"  laughed  Keith.  "I  know 
he  went  down  over  there  where  you  saw  him  lying— and 
I  have  ended  one  or  two  misunderstandings  with  it  very 
satisfactorily." 

"Ah,  well,  then,  I'm  glad  I  taaught  ye.  I'm  glad  ye've 
got  such  a  good  defender,  ma'am.  Ye'll  pardon  what  I 
said  when  I  first  coomed  up.  But  I  was  a  little  over-het. 
Ye  see,  this  place  is  kind  o'  noted  for— for—  This  place  is 
called  'Snugglers'  Roost.'  Nobody  comes  here  this  time 
'thout  they'rre  a  little  aff,  and  we  has  arders  to  look  out 
for  >em." 

"I  am  glad  I  had  two  such  defenders,"  said  Lois,  inno 
cently. 

"I'm  always  glad  to  meet  Mr.  Keith's  friends— and  his 
inimies  too,"  said  the  sergeant,  taking  off  his  helmet  and 
bowing.  "If  I  can  sarve  ye  any  time,  sind  worrd  to  Pre- 
cin't  XX,  and  I'll  be  proud  to  do  it." 

As  Keith  and  Lois  walked  slowly  homeward,  Lois  gave 
him  an  account  of  her  interview  with  Wickersham.  Only 
she  did  not  tell  him  of  his  kissing  her  the  first  time.  She 
tried  to  minimize  the  insult  now,  for  she  did  not  know  what 
Keith  might  do.  He  had  suddenly  grown  so  quiet. 

What  she  said  to  Keith,  however,  was  enough  to  make 
him  very  grave.  And  when  he  left  her  at  Mrs.  Wentworth's 
house  the  gravity  on  his  face  deepened  to  grimness.  That 
Wickersham  should  have  dared  to  insult  this  young  girl  as 
he  had  done  stirred  Keith's  deepest  anger.  What  Keith 
did  was,  perhaps,  a  very  foolish  thing.  He  tried  to  find 
him,  but  failing  in  this,  he  wrote  him  a  note  in  which  he 

444 


"SNUGGLEKS'  ROOST" 

told  him  what  he  thought  of  him,  and  added  that  if  he  felt 
aggrieved  he  would  be  glad  to  send  a  friend  to  him  and 
arrange  to  give  him  any  satisfaction  which  he  might  desire. 

Wickersham,  however,  had  left  town.  He  had  gone 
West  on  business,  and  would  not  return  for  some  weeks, 
the  report  from  his  office  stated. 

On  reaching  home,  Lois  went  straight  to  her  room  and 
thought  over  the  whole  matter.  It  certainly  appeared 
grave  enough  to  her.  She  determined  that  she  would 
never  meet  Wickersham  again,  and,  further,  that  she  would 
not  remain  in  the  house  if  she  had  to  do  so.  Her  cheeks 
burned  with  shame  as  she  thought  of  him,  and  then  her 
heart  sank  at  the  thought  that  Keith  might  at  that  moment 
be  seeking  him. 

Having  reached  her  decision,  she  sought  Mrs.  Went- 
worth. 

As  soon  as  she  entered  the  room,  Mrs.  Wentworth  saw 
that  something  serious  had  occurred,  and  in  reply  to  her 
question  Lois  sat  down  and  quietly  told  the  story  of  having 
met  Mr.  Wickersham  and  of  his  attempting  to  kiss  her, 
though  she  did  not  repeat  what  Wickersham  had  said  to 
her.  To  her  surprise,  Mrs.  Wentworth  burst  out  laughing. 

"On  my  word,  you  were  so  tragic  when  you  came  in  that 
I  feared  something  terrible  had  occurred.  Why,  you  silly 
creature,  do  you  suppose  that  Ferdy  meant  anything  by 
what  he  did?" 

"He  meant  to  insult  me— and  you,"  said  Lois,  with  a  lift 
of  her  head  and  a  flash  in  her  eye. 

"Nonsense !  He  has  probably  kissed  a  hundred  girls, 
and  will  kiss  a  hundred  more  if  they  give  him  the  chance 
to  do  so." 

"I  gave  him  no  chance,"  said  Lois,  sitting  very  straight 
and  stiff,  and  with  a  proud  dignity  which  the  other  might 
well  have  heeded. 

"Now,  don't  be  silly,"  said  Mrs.  Wentworth,  with  a  little 
hauteur.  "Why  did  you  walk  in  a  secluded  part  of  the 
Park  with  him?" 

445 


GORDON   KEITH 

"I  thought  I  could  help  a  friend  of  mine,"  said  Lois. 

"Mr.  Keith,  I  suppose  ! " 

"No  ;  not  Mr.  Keith." 

"A  woman,  perhaps?" 

"  Yes  ;  a  woman."  She  spoke  with  a  hauteur  which  Mrs. 
Wentworth  had  never  seen  in  her. 

"Cousin  Louise,"  she  said  suddenly,  after  a  moment's 
reflection,  "I  think  I  ought  to  say  to  you  that  I  will  never 
speak  to  Mr.  Wickersham  again." 

The  color  rushed  to  Mrs.  Wentworth's  face,  and  her  eyes 
gave  a  flash.  "You  will  never  do  what?"  she  demanded 
coldly,  looking  at  her  with  lifted  head. 

"I  will  never  meet  Mr.  Wickersham  again." 

"You  appear  to  have  met  him  once  too  often  already. 
I  think  you  do  not  know  what  you  are  saying  or  whom 
you  are  speaking  to." 

"I  do  perfectly,"  said  Lois,  looking  her  full  in  the  eyes. 

"I  think  you  had  better  go  to  your  room,"  said  Mrs. 
Wentworth,  angrily. 

The  color  rose  to  Lois's  face,  and  her  eyes  were  sparkling. 
Then  the  color  ebbed  back  again  as  she  restrained  herself. 

"You  mean  you  wish  me  to  go? "     Her  voice  was  calm. 

"I  do.     You  have  evidently  forgotten  your  place." 

"I  will  go  home,"  she  said.  She  walked  slowly  to  the 
door.  As  she  reached  it  she  turned  and  faced  Mrs.  Went 
worth.  "I  wish  to  thank  you  for  all  your  kindness  to 
me ;  for  you  have  been  very  kind  to  me  at  times,  and  I 
wish—"  Her  voice  broke  a  little,  but  she  recovered  her 
self,  and  walking  back  to  Mrs.  Wentworth,  held  out  her 
hand.  "Good-by." 

Mrs.  Wentworth,  without  rising,  shook  hands  with  her 
coldly.  "Good-by." 

Lois  turned  and  walked  slowly  from  the  room. 

As  soon  as  she  had  closed  the  door  she  rushed  up -stairs, 
and,  locking  herself  in,  threw  herself  on  the  bed  and  burst 
out  crying.  The  strain  had  been  too  great,  and  the  bent 
bow  at  last  snapped. 

446 


"SMUGGLERS'  BOOST" 

An  hour  or  two  later  there  was  a  knock  on  her  door. 
Lois  opened  it,  and  Mrs.  Wentworth  entered.  She  ap 
peared  rather  surprised  to  find  Lois  packing  her  trunk. 

"Are  you  really  going  away?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  Cousin  Louise." 

"I  think  I  spoke  hastily  to  you.  I  said  one  or  two  things 
that  I  regret.  I  had  no  right  to  speak  to  you  as  I  did," 
said  Mrs.  Wentworth. 

"No,  I  do  not  think  you  had,"  said  Lois,  gravely ;  "but 
I  will  try  and  never  think  of  it  again,  but  only  of  your 
kindness  to  me." 

Suddenly,  to  her  astonishment,  Mrs.  Wentworth  burst 
out  weeping.  "You  are  all  against  me,"  she  exclaimed— 
"all !  You  are  all  so  hard  on  me  ! " 

Lois  sprang  toward  her,  her  face  full  of  sudden  pity. 
"Why,  Cousin  Louise  ! " 

"You  are  all  deserting  me.  What  shall  I  do  !  I  am  so 
wretched  !  I  am  so  lonely— so  lonely  !  Oh,  I  wish  I  were 
dead  ! "  sobbed  the  unhappy  woman.  "Then,  maybe,  some 
one  might  be  sorry  for  me  even  if  they  did  not  love  me." 

Lois  slipped  her  arm  around  her  and  drew  her  to  her,  as 
if  their  ages  had  been  reversed.  "Don't  cry,  Cousin  Louise. 
Calm  yourself." 

Lois  drew  her  down  to  a  sofa,  and  kneeling  beside  her, 
tried  to  comfort  her  with  tender  words  and  assurances  of 
her  affection.  "There,  Cousin  Louise,  I  do  love  you— we 
all  love  you.  Cousin  Norman  loves  you." 

Mrs.  Wentworth  only  sobbed  her  dissent. 

"I  will  stay.  I  will  not  go,"  said  Lois.  "If  you  want 
me." 

The  unhappy  woman  caught  her  in  her  arms  and  thanked 
her  with  a  humility  which  was  new  to  the  girl.  And  out 
of  the  reconciliation  came  a  view  of  her  which  Lois  had 
never  seen,  and  which  hardly  any  one  had  seen  often. 


447 


CHAPTEE  XXXI 

TERPY'S   LAST   DANCE   AND  WICKER- 
SHAM'S   FINAL  THROW 

/CURIOUSLY  enough,  the  interview  between  Mrs.  Lan- 
\J  caster  and  Lois  brought  them  closer  together  than 
before.  The  older  woman  seemed  to  find  a  new  pleasure  in 
the  young  girl's  society,  and  as  often  as  she  could  she  had  the 
girl  at  her  house.  Sometimes,  too,  Keith  was  of  the  party. 
He  held  himself  in  leash,  and  hardly  dared  face  the  fact 
that  he  had  once  more  entered  on  the  lane  which,  beginning 
among  flowers,  had  proved  so  thorny  in  the  end.  Yet  more 
and  more  he  let  himself  drift  into  that  sweet  atmosphere 
whose  light  was  the  presence  of  Lois  Huntington. 

One  evening  they  all  went  together  to  see  a  vaudeville 
performance  that  was  being  much  talked  about. 

Keith  had  secured  a  box  next  the  stage.  The  theatre 
was  crowded.  Wickersham  sat  in  another  box  with  several 
women,  and  Keith  was  aware  that  he  was  covertly  watching 
his  party.  He  had  never  appeared  gayer  or  been  handsomer. 

The  last  number  but  one  was  a  dance  by  a  new  danseuse, 
who,  it  was  stated  in  the  playbills,  had  just  come  over  from 
Russia.  According  to  the  reports,  the  Russian  court  was 
wild  about  her,  and  she  had  left  Europe  at  the  personal 
request  of  the  Czar.  However  this  might  be,  it  appeared 
that  she  could  dance.  The  theatre  was  packed  nightly,  and 
she  was  the  drawing-card. 

As  the  curtain  rose,  the  danseuse  made  her  way  to  the 
centre  of  the  stage.  She  had  raven-black  hair  and  brows  ; 
but  even  as  she  stood,  there  was  something  in  the  pose  that 

448 


TEKPY'S   LAST   DANCE 

seemed  familiar  to  Keith,  and  as  she  stepped  forward  and 
bowed  with  a  little  jerk  of  her  head,  and  then,  with  a  nod 
to  the  orchestra,  began  to  dance,  Keith  recognized  Terpy. 
That  abandon  was  her  own. 

As  she  swept  the  boxes  with  her  eyes,  they  fell  on  Keith, 
and  she  started,  hesitated,  then  went  on.  Next  moment 
she  glanced  at  the  box  again,  and  as  her  eye  caught 
Keith's  she  gave  him  a  glance  of  recognition.  She  was  not 
to  be  disconcerted  now,  however.  She  had  never  danced 
so  well.  And  she  was  greeted  with  raptures  of  applause. 
The  crowd  was  wild  with  delight. 

At  that  moment,  from  one  of  the  wings,  a  thin  curl  of 
smoke  rose  and  floated  up  alongside  a  painted  tamarind- 
tree.  It  might  at  first  have  been  only  the  smoke  of  a  cigar. 
Next  moment,  however,  a  flick  of  flame  stole  out  and  moved 
up  the  tree,  and  a  draught  of  air  blew  the  smoke  across  the 
stage.  There  were  a  few  excited  whispers,  a  rush  in  the 
wings;  some  one  in  the  gallery  shouted  "Fire !"  and  just 
then  a  shower  of  sparks  from  the  flaming  scenery  fell  on 
the  stage. 

In  a  second  the  whole  audience  was  on  its  feet.  In  a 
second  more  there  would  have  been  a  panic  which  must 
have  cost  many  lives.  Keith  saw  the  danger.  "Stay  in 
this  box,"  he  said.  "The  best  way  out  is  over  the  stage.  I 
will  come  for  you  if  necessary."  He  sprang  on  the  stage, 
and,  with  a  wave  of  his  arm  to  the  audience,  shouted : 
"Down  in  your  seats  !  It  is  all  right." 

Those  nearest  the  stage,  seeing  a  man  stand  between  them 
and  the  fire,  had  paused,  and  the  hubbub  for  a  moment  had 
ceased.  Keith  took  advantage  of  it. 

"This  theatre  can  be  emptied  in  three  minutes  if  you 
take  your  time,"  he  cried ;  "but  the  fire  is  under  control." 

Terpy  had  seized  the  burning  piece  of  scenery  and  torn 
it  down,  and  was  tearing  off  the  flaming  edges  with  her 
naked  hands.  He  sprang  to  Terpy's  side.  Her  filmy  dress 
caught  fire,  but  Keith  jerked  off  his  coat  and  smothered  the 
flame.  Just  then  the  water  came,  and  the  fire  was  subdued. 

449 


GOBDON   KEITH 

"Strike  up  that  music  again,"  Keith  said  to  the  musicians. 
Then  to  Terpy  he  said :  "  Begin  dancing.  Dance  for  your 
life  ! "  The  girl  obeyed,  and,  all  blackened  as  she  was,  began 
to  dance  again.  She  danced  as  she  had  never  danced  before, 
and  as  she  danced  the  people  at  the  rear  filed  out,  while 
most  of  those  in  the  body  of  the  house  stood  and  watched 
her.  As  the  last  spark  of  flame  was  extinguished  the  girl 
stopped,  breathless.  Thunders  of  applause  broke  out,  but 
ceased  as  Terpy  suddenly  sank  to  the  floor,  clutching  with 
her  blackened  hands  at  her  throat.  Keith  caught  her,  and 
lowering  her  gently,  straightened  her  dress.  The  next 
moment  a  woman  sprang  out  of  her  box  and  knelt  beside 
him  ;  a  woman's  arm  slipped  under  the  dancer's  head,  and 
Lois  Huntington,  on  her  knees,  was  loosening  Terpy's 
bodice  as  if  she  had  been  a  sister. 

A  doctor  came  up  out  of  the  audience  and  bent  over  her, 
and  the  curtain  rang  dowa 

That  night  Keith  and  Lois  and  Mrs.  Lancaster  all  spent 
in  the  waiting-room  of  the  Emergency  Hospital.  They 
knew  that  Terpy's  life  was  ebbing  fast.  She  had  swallowed 
the  flame,  the  doctor  said.  During  the  night  a  nurse  came 
and  called  for  Keith.  The  dying  woman  wanted  to  see 
him.  When  Keith  reached  her  bedside,  the  doctor,  in 
reply  to  a  look  of  inquiry  from  him,  said :  "  You  can  say 
anything  to  her ;  it  will  not  hurt  her."  He  turned  away, 
and  Keith  seated  himself  beside  her.  Her  face  and  hands 
were  swathed  in  bandages. 

"I  want  to  say  good-by,"  she  said  feebly.  "You  don't 
mind  now  what  I  said  to  you  that  time  I "  Keith,  for  an 
swer,  stroked  the  coverlid  beside  her.  "I  want  to  go 
back  home— to  Gumbolt.— Tell  the  boys  good-by  for  me." 

Keith  said  he  would— as  well  as  he  could,  for  he  had 
little  voice  left. 

"I  want  to  see  her,"  she  said  presently. 

"Whom?"  asked  Keith. 

"The  younger  one.  The  one  you  looked  at  all  the  time. 
I  want  to  thank  her  for  the  doll.  I  ran  away." 

450 


TERPY'S   LAST   DANCE 

Lois  was  sent  for,  but  when  she  reached  the  bedside 
Terpy  was  too  far  gone  to  speak  so  that  she  could  be  under 
stood.  But  she  was  conscious  enough  to  know  that  Lois 
was  at  her  side  and  that  it  was  her  voice  that  repeated  the 
Lord's  Prayer. 

The  newspapers  the  next  day  rang  with  her  praises,  and 
that  night  Keith  went  South  with  her  body  to  lay  it  on  tne 
hillside  among  her  friends,  and  all  of  old  Gumbolt  was 
there  to  meet  her. 

Wickersham,  on  finding  his  attempt  at  explanation  to 
Mrs.  Wentworth  received  with  coldness,  turned  his  atten 
tions  in  another  direction.  It  was  necessary.  His  affairs 
had  all  gone  wrong  of  late.  He  had  seen  his  great  fortune 
disappear  under  his  hands.  Men  who  had  not  half  his  abil 
ity  were  succeeding  where  he  had  failed.  Men  who  once 
followed  him  now  held  aloof,  and  refused  to  be  drawn  into 
his  most  tempting  schemes.  His  enemies  were  working 
against  him.  He  would  overthrow  them  yet.  Norman 
Wentworth  and  Gordon  Keith  especially  he  hated. 

He  began  to  try  his  fortune  with  Mrs.  Lancaster  again. 
Now,  if  ever,  appeared  a  good  time.  She  was  indifferent 
to  every  man — unless  she  cared  for  Keith.  He  had  some 
times  thought  she  might ;  but  he  did  not  believe  it. 
Keith,  of  course,  would  like  to  marry  her  ;  but  Wickersham 
did  not  believe  Keith  stood  any  chance.  Though  she  had 
refused  Wickersham,  she  had  never  shown  any  one  else 
any  special  favor.  He  would  try  new  tactics  and  bear  her 
off  before  she  knew  it.  He  began  with  a  dash.  He  was 
quite  a  different  man  from  what  he  had  been.  He  even 
was  seen  in  church,  turning  on  Rimmon  a  sphinx-like  face 
that  a  little  disconcerted  that  eloquent  person. 

Mrs.  Lancaster  received  him  with  the  serene  and  un 
ruffled  indifference  with  which  she  received  all  her  ad 
mirers,  and  there  were  many.  She  treated  him,  however, 
with  the  easy  indulgence  with  which  old  friends  are  likely 
to  be  treated  for  old  times7  sake ;  and  Wickersham  was 

451 


GOKDON   KEITH 

deceived.     Fortune  appeared  suddenly  to  smile  on  him 
again.     Hope  sprang  up  once  more. 

Mrs.  Nailor  one  day  met  Lois,  and  informed  her  that 
Mr.  Wickersham  was  now  a  rival  of  Mr.  Keith's  with 
Mrs.  Lancaster,  and,  what  was  more,  that  Norman  Went- 
worth  had  learned  that  it  was  not  Wickersham  at  all,  but 
Mr.  Keith  who  had  really  caused  the  trouble  between  Nor 
man  and  his  wife. 

Lois  was  aghast.  She  denied  vehemently  that  it  was  true  ; 
but  Mrs.  Nailor  received  her  denial  with  amused  indulgence. 

"Oh,  every  one  knows  it,"  she  said.  "Mr.  Keith  long 
ago  cut  Fredy  out ;  and  Norman  knows  it." 

Lois  went  home  in  a  maze.  This,  then,  explained  why 
Mr.  Keith  had  suddenly  stopped  coming  to  the  house. 
When  he  had  met  her  he  had  appeared  as  glad  as  ever  to 
see  her,  but  he  had  also  appeared  constrained.  He  had 
begun  to  talk  of  going  away.  He  was  almost  the  only  man 
in  New  York  that  she  could  call  her  friend.  To  think 
of  New  York  without  him  made  her  lonely.  He  was  in 
love  with  Mrs.  Lancaster,  she  knew— of  that  she  was  sure, 
notwithstanding  Mrs.  Nailor's  statement.  Could  Mrs.  Lan 
caster  have  treated  him  badly  ?  She  had  not  even  cared  for 
her  husband,  so  people  said  ;  would  she  be  cruel  to  Keith  ? 

The  more  she  pondered  over  it  the  more  unhappy  Lois 
became.  Finally  it  appeared  to  her  that  her  duty  was 
plain.  If  Mrs.  Lancaster  had  rejected  Keith  for  Wicker 
sham,  she  might  set  her  right.  She  could,  at  least,  set  her 
right  as  to  the  story  about  him  and  Mrs.  Wentworth. 

That  afternoon  she  called  on  Mrs.  Lancaster.  It  was  in 
the  Spring,  and  she  put  on  a  dainty  gown  she  had  just  made. 

She  was  received  with  the  sincere  cordiality  that  Alice 
Lancaster  always  showed  her.  She  was  taken  up  to  her 
boudoir,  a  nest  of  blue  satin  and  sunshine.  And  there,  of 
all  occupations  in  the  world,  Mrs.  Lancaster,  clad  in  a  soft 
lavender  tea-gown,  was  engaged  in  mending  old  clothes. 
"For  my  orphans,"  she  said,  with  a  laugh  and  a  blush  that 
made  her  look  charming. 

452 


TERPY'S    LAST   DANCE 

A  photograph  of  Keith  stood  on  the  table  in  a  silver 
frame.  When,  however,  Lois  would  have  brought  up  the 
subject  of  Mr.  Keith,  his  name  stuck  in  her  throat. 

"I  have  what  the  children  call  'a  swap'  for  you/'  said 
the  girl,  smiling. 

Mrs.  Lancaster  smiled  acquiescingly  as  she  bit  off  a  thread. 

"I  heard  some  one  say  the  other  day  that  you  were  one 
of  those  who l  do  good  by  stealth,  and  blush  to  find  it  fame.7 " 

"Oh,  how  nice  !  I  am  not,  at  all,  you  know.  Still,  it  is 
pleasant  to  deceive  people  that  way.  Who  said  it?" 

"Mr.  Keith."  Lois  could  not  help  blushing  a  little  ;  but 
she  had  broken  the  ice. 

"And  I  have  one  to  return  to  you.  I  heard  some  one  say 
that  you  had  'the  rare  gift  of  an  absolutely  direct  mind.' 
That  you  were  like  George  Washington  :  you  couldn't  tell 
a  lie— that  truth  had  its  home  in  your  eyes."  Her  eyes 
were  twinkling. 

"My  !     Who  said  that?  "  asked  the  girl. 

"Mr.  Keith." 

Lois  turned  quickly  under  pretence  of  picking  up  some 
thing,  but  she  was  not  quick  enough  to  hide  her  face  from 
her  friend.  The  red  that  burned  in  her  cheeks  flamed  down 
and  made  her  throat  rosy. 

Mrs.  Lancaster  looked  at  the  young  girl.  She  made  a 
pretty  picture  as  she  sat  leaning  forward,  the  curves  of 
her  slim,  light-gowned  figure  showing  against  the  back 
ground  of  blue.  Her  face  was  pensive,  and  she  was  evi 
dently  thinking  deeply. 

"What  are  you  puzzling  over  so  1 " 

At  the  question  the  color  mounted  into  her  cheeks,  and 
the  next  second  a  smile  lit  up  her  face  as  she  turned  her 
eyes  frankly  on  Mrs.  Lancaster. 

"You  would  be  amused  to  know.  I  was  wondering  how 
long  you  had  known  Mr.  Keith,  and  what  he  was  like  when 
he  was  young." 

"When  he  was  young  !  Do  you  call  him  old  now  ?  Why, 
he  is  only  a  little  over  thirty." 

453 


GOKDON   KEITH 

"Is  that  all !  He  always  seems  much  older  to  me,  I  do 
not  know  why.  But  he  has  seen  so  much — done  so  much. 
Why,  he  appears  to  have  had  so  many  experiences !  I 
feel  as  if  no  matter  what  might  happen,  he  would  know  just 
what  to  do.  For  instance,  that  story  that  Cousin  Norman 
told  me  once  of  his  going  down  into  the  flooded  mine,  and 
that  night  at  the  theatre,  when  there  was  the  fire— why,  he 
just  took  charge.  I  felt  as  if  he  would  take  charge  no 
matter  what  might  happen." 

Mrs.  Lancaster  at  first  had  smiled  at  the  girl's  enthusiasm, 
but  before  Lois  had  finished,  she  had  drifted  away. 

"He  would— he  would,"  she  repeated,  pensively. 

"Then  that  poor  girl— what  he  did  for  her.  I  just"  — 
Lois  paused,  seeking  for  a  word— "trust  him  ! " 

Mrs.  Lancaster  smiled. 

"You  may,"  she  said.     "That  is  exactly  the  word." 

"Tell  me,  what  was  he  like  when— you  first  knew  him?  " 

"I  don't  know— why,  he  was— he  was  just  what  he  is  now 
—you  could  have  trusted  him—' 

"Why  didn't  you  marry  him?"  asked  Lois,  her  eyes  on 
the  other's  face. 

Mrs.  Lancaster  looked  at  her  with  almost  a  gasp. 

"Why,  Lois!  What  are  you  talking  about?  Who 
says—?" 

"He  says  so.  He  said  he  was  desperately  in  love  with 
you." 

"Why,  Lois—  ! "  began  Mrs.  Lancaster,  with  the  color 
mounting  to  her  cheeks.  "Well,  he  has  gotten  bravely  over 
it,"  she  laughed. 

"He  has  not.  He  is  in  love  with  you  now,"  the  young 
girl  said  calmly. 

Mrs.  Lancaster  turned  and  faced  her  with  her  mouth 
open  to  speak,  and  read  the  girl's  sincerity  in  her  face. 
"With  me  ! "  She  clasped  her  hands  with  a  pretty  gesture 
over  her  bosom.  A  warm  feeling  suddenly  surged  to  her 
heart. 

The  younger  woman  nodded. 

454 


TERPY'S   LAST   DANCE 

"Yes— and,  oh,  Mrs.  Lancaster,  don't  treat  him  badly  ! " 
She  laid  both  hands  on  her  arm  and  looked  at  her  ear 
nestly.  "He  has  loved  you  always,'7  she  continued. 

"Loved  me  !  Lois,  you  are  dreaming."  But  as  she  said 
it,  Alice's  heart  was  beating. 

"Yes,  he  was  talking  to  me  one  evening,  and  he  began 
to  tell  me  of  his  love  for  a  girl,— a  young  girl,— and  what 
a  part  it  had  played  in  his  life—" 

"But  I  was  married,"  put  in  Mrs.  Lancaster,  seeking  for 
further  proof  rather  than  renouncing  this. 

"Yes,  he  said  she  did  not  care  for  him  ;  but  he  had  always 
striven  to  keep  her  image  in  his  heart— her  image  as  she 
was  when  he  knew  her  and  as  he  imagined  her." 

Mrs.  Lancaster's  face  for  a  moment  was  a  study. 

"Do  you  know  whom  he  is  in  love  with  now?"  she  said 
presently. 

"Yes ;  with  you." 

"No— not  with  me ;  with  you."  She  put  her  hand  on 
Lois's  cheek  caressingly,  and  gazed  into  her  eyes. 

The  girl's  eyes  sank  into  her  lap.  Her  face,  which  had 
been  growing  white  and  pink  by  turns,  suddenly  flamed. 

"Mrs.  Lancaster,  I  believe  I—"  she  began  in  low  tones. 
She  raised  her  eyes,  and  they  met  for  a  moment  Mrs.  Lan 
caster's.  Something  in  their  depths,  some  look  of  sympathy, 
of  almost  maternal  kindness,  struck  her,  passed  through 
to  her  long-stilled  heart.  With  a  little  cry  she  threw 
herself  into  the  other's  arms  and  buried  her  burning  face  in 
her  lap. 

The  expression  on  the  face  of  the  young  widow  changed. 
She  glanced  down  for  a  moment  at  the  little  head  in  her 
lap,  then  bending  down,  she  buried  her  face  in  the  brown 
tresses,  and  drew  her  form  close  to  her  heart. 

In  a  moment  the  young  girl  was  pouring  out  her  soul 
to  her  as  if  she  had  been  her  daughter. 

The  expression  in  Alice  Lancaster's  eyes  was  softer  than 
it  had  been  for  a  long  time,  for  it  was  the  light  of  self-sac 
rifice  that  shone  in  them. 

455 


GOBDON   KEITH 

"You  have  your  happiness  in  your  hands,"  she  said 
tenderly. 

Lois  looked  up  with  dissent  in  her  eyes. 

Mrs.  Lancaster  shook  her  head. 

"No.     He  will  never  be  in  love  with  me  again." 

The  girl  gave  a  quick  intaking  of  her  breath,  her  hand 
clutching  at  her  throat. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Lancaster  ! "  She  was  thinking  aloud  rather 
than  speaking.  "I  thought  that  you  cared  for  him." 

Alice  Lancaster  shook  her  head.  She  tried  to  meet 
frankly  the  other's  eyes,  but  as  they  gazed  deep  into 
hers  with  an  inquiry  not  to  be  put  aside,  hers  failed  and 
fell. 

"No,"  she  said,  but  it  was  with  a  gasp. 

Lois's  eyes  opened  wide,  and  her  face  changed. 

"Oh  ! "  she  murmured,  as  the  sense  of  what  she  had  done 
swept  over  her.  She  rose  to  her  feet  and,  bending  down, 
kissed  Mrs.  Lancaster  tenderly.  One  might  have  thought 
she  was  the  elder  of  the  two. 

Lois  returned  home  in  deep  thought.  She  had  surprised 
Mrs.  Lancaster's  secret,  and  the  end  was  plain.  She  al 
lowed  herself  no  delusions.  The  dream  that  for  a  moment 
had  shed  its  radiance  on  her  was  broken.  Keith  was  in 
love  with  Mrs.  Lancaster,  and  Alice  loved  him.  She  prayed 
that  they  might  be  happy— especially  Keith.  She  was 
angry  with  herself  that  she  had  allowed  herself  to  become 
so  interested  in  him.  She  would  forget  him.  This  was 
easier  said  than  done.  But  she  could  at  least  avoid  seeing 
him.  And  having  made  her  decision,  she  held  to  it  firmly. 
She  avoided  him  in  every  way  possible. 

The  strain,  however,  had  been  too  much  for  Lois,  and 
her  strength  began  to  go.  The  doctor  advised  Mrs.  Went- 
worth  to  send  her  home.  "She  is  breaking  down,  and  you 
will  have  her  ill  on  your  hands,"  he  said.  Lois,  too,  was 
pining  to  get  away.  She  felt  that  she  could  not  stand  the 
city  another  week.  And  so,  one  day,  she  disappeared  from 
town. 

456 


TERPY'S  LAST   DANCE 

When  Wickersham  met  Mrs.  Lancaster  after  her  talk 
with  Lois,  he  was  conscious  of  the  change  in  her.  The  old 
easy,  indulgent  attitude  was  gone ;  and  in  her  eye,  instead 
of  the  lazy,  half-amused  smile,  was  something  very  like 
scorn.  Something  had  happened,  he  knew. 

His  thoughts  flew  to  Keith,  Norman,  Kimmon,  also  to 
several  ladies  of  his  acquaintance.  What  had  they  told 
her  ?  Could  it  be  the  fact  that  he  had  lost  nearly  everything 
—that  he  had  spent  Mrs.  Went  worth's  money?  That  he 
had  written  anonymous  letters  ?  Whatever  it  was,  he  would 
brave  it  out.  He  had  been  in  some  hard  places  lately,  and 
had  won  out  by  his  nerve.  He  assumed  an  injured  and  a 
virtuous  air,  and  no  man  could  do  it  better. 

"What  has  happened?  You  are  so  strange  to  me.  Has 
some  one  been  prejudicing  you  against  me?  Some  one  has 
slandered  me,"  he  said,  with  an  air  of  virtue. 

"No.  No  one.7'  Mrs.  Lancaster  turned  her  rings  with 
a  little  embarrassment.  She  was  trying  to  muster  the 
courage  to  speak  plainly  to  him.  He  gave  it  to  her. 

"Oh,  yes ;  some  one  has.  I  think  I  have  a  right  to  de 
mand  who  it  is.  Is  it  that  man  Keith?  " 

"No."  She  glanced  at  him  with  a  swift  flash  in  her  eye. 
"Mr.  Keith  has  not  mentioned  your  name  to  me  since  I 
came  home." 

Her  tone  fired  him  with  jealousy. 

"Well,  who  was  it,  then?  He  is  not  above  it.  He  hates 
me  enough  to  say  anything.  He  has  never  got  over  our 
buying  his  old  place,  and  has  never  lost  an  opportunity 
to  malign  me  since." 

She  looked  him  in  the  face,  for  the  first  time,  quite  steadily. 

"Let  me  tell  you,  Mr.  Keith  has  never  said  a  word 
against  you  to  me— and  that  is  much  more  than  I  can  say 
for  you  j  so  you  need  not  be  maligning  him  now." 

A  faint  flush  stole  into  Wickersham's  face. 

"You  appear  to  be  championing  his  cause  very  warmly." 

"Because  he  is  a  friend  of  mine  and  an  honorable  gentle 
man." 

457 


GORDON   KEITH 

He  gave  a  hard,  bitter  laugh. 

"Women  are  innocent ! " 

"It  is  more  than  men  are,"  she  said,  fired,  as  women 
always  are,  by  a  fleer  at  the  sex. 

"Who  has  been  slandering  me?"  he  demanded,  angered 
suddenly  by  her  retort.  "I  have  stood  in  a  relation  to  you 
which  gives  me  a  right  to  demand  the  name." 

"What  relation  to  me?— Where  is  your  wife?  " 

His  face  whitened,  and  he  drew  in  his  breath  as  if  struck 
a  blow,— a  long  breath,— but  in  a  second  he  had  recovered 
himself,  and  he  burst  into  a  laugh. 

"So  you  have  heard  that  old  story— and  believe  it?"  he 
said,  with  his  eyes  looking  straight  into  hers.  As  she  made 
no  answer,  he  went  on.  "Now,  as  you  have  heard  it,  I 
will  explain  the  whole  thing  to  you.  I  have  always 
wanted  to  do  it  j  but— but— I  hardly  knew  whether  it 
were  better  to  do  it  or  leave  it  alone.  I  thought  if  you 
had  heard  it  you  would  mention  it  to  me—" 

"I  have  done  so  now,"  she  said  coldly. 

"I  thought  our  relation— or,  as  you  object  to  that  word, 
our  friendship— entitled  me  to  that  much  from  you." 

"I  never  heard  it  till— till  just  now,"  she  defended, 
rather  shaken  by  his  tone  and  air  of  candor. 

"When?" 

"Oh — very  recently." 

"Won't  you  tell  me  who  told  you?" 

"No— o.     Go  on." 

"Well,  that  woman— that  poor  girl— her  name  was— her 
name  is — Phrony  Tripper — or  Trimmer.  I  think  that  was 
her  name— she  called  herself  Euphronia  Tripper."  He 
was  trying  with  puckered  brow  to  recall  exactly.  "I  sup 
pose  that  is  the  woman  you  are  referring  to?"  he  said 
suddenly. 

"It  is.     You  have  not  had  more  than  one,  have  you?  " 

He  laughed,  pleased  to  give  the  subject  a  lighter  tone. 

"Well,  this  poor  creature  I  used  to  know  in  the  South 
when  I  was  a  boy —when  I  first  went  down  there,  you  know  t 

458 


TEKPY'S   LAST   DANCE 

She  was  the  daughter  of  an  old  farmer  at  whose  house 
we  stayed.  I  used  to  talk  to  her.  You  know  how  a  boy 
talks  to  a  pretty  girl  whom  he  is  thrown  with  in  a  lone 
some  old  country  place,  far  from  any  amusement."  Her 
eyes  showed  that  she  knew,  and  he  was  satisfied  and  pro 
ceeded. 

"But  heavens !  the  idea  of  being  in  love  with  her ! 
Why,  she  was  the  daughter  of  a  farmer.  Well,  then  I  fell 
in  with  her  afterwards— once  or  twice,  to  be  accurate— 
when  I  went  down  there  on  business,  and  she  was  a  pretty, 
vain  country  girl—" 

"I  used  to  know  her,"  assented  Mrs.  Lancaster. 

"You  did  ! "     His  face  fell. 

"Yes  ;  when  I  went  there  to  a  little  Winter  resort  for  my 
throat— when  I  was  seventeen.  She  used  to  go  to  the 
school  taught  by  Mr.  Keith." 

"She  did?  Oh,  then  you  know  her  name?  It  was  Trip 
per,  wasn't  it?" 

She  nodded. 

"I  thought  it  was.  Well,  she  was  quite  pretty,  you  re 
member  ;  and,  as  I  say,  I  fell  in  with  her  again,  and  having 
been  old  friends—"  He  shifted  in  his  seat  a  little  as  if  em 
barrassed— "Why— oh,  you  know  how  it  is.  I  began  to  talk 
nonsense  to  her  to  pass  away  the  time,— told  her  she  was 
pretty  and  all  that,— and  made  her  a  few  presents— and— " 
He  paused  and  took  a  long  breath.  "I  thought  she  was  very 
queer.  The  first  thing  I  knew,  I  found  she  was— out  of  her 
mind.  Well,  I  stopped  and  soon  came  away,  and,  to  my  hor 
ror,  she  took  it  into  her  head  that  she  was  my  wife.  She 
followed  me  here.  I  had  to  go  abroad,  and  I  heard  no  more 
of  her  until,  not  long  ago,  I  heard  she  had  gone  completely 
crazy  and  was  hunting  me  up  as  her  husband.  You  know 
how  such  poor  creatures  are  ?  "  He  paused,  well  satisfied 
with  his  recital,  for  first  surprise  and  then  a  certain  sym 
pathy  took  the  place  of  incredulity  in  Mrs.  Lancaster's  face. 

"She  is  absolutely  mad,  poor  thing,  I  understand,"  he 
sighed,  with  unmistakable  sympathy  in  his  voice. 

459 


GORDON   KEITH 

"Yes,"  Mrs.  Lancaster  assented,  her  thoughts  drifting 
away. 

He  watched  her  keenly,  and  next  moment  began  again. 

"I  heard  she  had  got  hold  of  Mr.  Rimmon's  name  and 
declares  that  he  married  us." 

Mrs.  Lancaster  returned  to  the  present,  and  he  went  on  : 

"I  don't  know  how  she  got  hold  of  it.  I  suppose  his 
being  the  fashionable  preacher,  or  his  name  being  in  the 
papers  frequently,  suggested  the  idea.  But  if  you  have  any 
doubt  on  the  subject,  ask  him." 

Mrs.  Lancaster  looked  assent. 

"Here—  Having  heard  the  story,  and  thinking  it  might 
be  as  well  to  stop  it  at  once,  I  wrote  to  Mr.  Rimmon  to  give 
me  a  statement  to  set  the  matter  at  rest,  and  I  have  it  in 
my  pocket."  He  took  from  his  pocket-book  a  letter  and 
spread  it  before  Mrs.  Lancaster.  It  read  : 

"DEAR  MR.  WICKERSHAM  :  I  am  sorry  you  are  being 
annoyed.  I  cannot  imagine  that  you  should  need  any  such 
statement  as  you  request.  The  records  of  marriages  are 
kept  in  the  proper  office  here.  Any  one  who  will  take  the 
trouble  to  inspect  those  records  will  see  that  I  have  never 
made  any  such  report.  This  should  be  more  than  sufficient. 
"I  feel  sure  this  will  answer  your  purpose. 

"Yours  sincerely, 

"W.  H.  RIMMON." 

"I  think  that  settles  the  matter,"  said  Wickersham, 
with  his  eyes  on  her  face. 

"It  would  seem  so,"  said  Mrs.  Lancaster,  gravely. 

As  she  spoke  slowly,  Wickersham  put  in  one  more  nail. 

"Of  course,  you  know  there  must  be  a  witness  to  a  mar 
riage,"  he  said.  "If  there  be  such  a  witness,  let  K— let 
those  who  are  engaged  in  defaming  me  produce  him." 

"No,  no,"  said  Mrs.  Lancaster,  quickly.  "Mr.  Rimmon's 
statement— I  think  I  owe  you  an  apology  for  what  I  said. 
Of  course,  it  appeared  incredible  ;  but  something  occurred— 

460 


TERPY'S  LAST  DANCE 

I  can't  tell  you— I  don't  want  to  tell  you  what— that  shocked 
me  very  much,  and  I  suppose  I  judged  too  hastily  and 
harshly.  You  must  forget  what  I  said,  and  forgive  me  for 
my  injustice." 

"Certainly  I  will,"  he  said  earnestly. 

The  revulsion  in  her  belief  inclined  her  to  be  kinder 
toward  him  than  she  had  been  in  a  long  time. 

The  change  in  her  manner  toward  him  made  Wicker- 
sham's  heart  begin  to  beat.  He  leant  over  and  took  her 
hand. 

"Won't  you  give  me  more  than  justice,  Alice?"  he 
began.  "If  you  knew  how  long  I  have  waited — how  I 
have  hoped  even  against  hope— how  I  have  always  loved 
you—"  She  was  so  taken  aback  by  his  declaration  that 
for  a  moment  she  did  not  find  words  to  reply,  and  he  swept 
on  :  "  —  you  would  not  be  so  cold— so  cruel  to  me.  I  have 
always  thought  you  the  most  beautiful— the  most  charming 
woman  in  New  York." 

She  shook  her  head.     "No,  you  have  not." 

"I  have ;  I  swear  I  have !  Even  when  I  have  hung 
around— around  other  women,  I  have  done  so  because  I 
saw  you  were  taken  up  with— some  one  else.  I  thought  I 
might  find  some  one  else  to  supplant  you,  but  never  for  one 
moment  have  I  failed  to  acknowledge  your  superiority—" 

"Oh,  no ;  you  have  not.  How  can  you  dare  to  tell  me 
that?"  she  smiled,  recovering  her  self-possession. 

"I  have,  Alice,  ever  since  you  were  a  girl — even  when  you 
were— were— when  you  were  beyond  me— I  loved  you  more 
than  ever— I—"  Her  face  changed,  and  she  recoiled  from  him. 

"Don't,"  she  said. 

"I  will."  He  seized  her  hand  and  held  it  tightly.  "I 
loved  you  even  then  better  than  I  ever  loved  in  my  life— 
better  than  your— than  any  one  else  did."  Her  face 
whitened. 

"Stop  ! "  she  cried.  "Not  another  word.  I  will  not  listen. 
Release  my  hand."  She  pulled  it  from  him  forcibly,  and, 
as  he  began  again,  she,  with  a  gesture,  stopped  him. 

461 


GOKDON   KEITH 

"No— no— no  !     It  is  impossible.     I  will  not  listen." 

His  face  changed  as  lie  looked  into  her  face.  She  rose 
from  her  seat  and  turned  away  from  him,  taking  two  or 
three  steps  up  and  down,  trying  to  regain  control  of  her 
self. 

He  waited  and  watched  her,  an  angry  light  coming  into 
his  eyes.  He  misread  her  feelings.  He  had  made  love  to 
married  women  before  and  had  not  been  repulsed. 

She  turned  to  him  now,  and  with  level  eyes  looked  into 
his. 

"You  never  loved  me  in  your  life.  I  have  had  men  in 
love  with  me,  and  know  when  they  are ;  but  you  are  not 
one  of  them." 

"I  was— I  am—"  he  began,  stepping  closer  to  her;  but 
she  stopped  him. 

"Not  for  a  minute,"  she  went  on,  without  heeding  him. 
"And  you  had  no  right  to  say  that  to  me." 

"What?"  he  demanded. 

"What  you  said.  My  husband  loved  me  with  all  the 
strength  of  a  noble,  high-minded  man,  and  notwithstanding 
the  difference  in  our  ages,  treated  me  as  his  equal ;  and  I 
loved  him— yes,  loved  him  devotedly,"  she  said,  as  she 
saw  a  spark  come  into  his  eyes. 

"You  love  some  one  else  now,"  he  said  coolly. 

It  might  have  been  anger  that  brought  the  rush  of  color 
to  her  face.  She  turned  and  looked  him  full  in  the  face. 

"If  I  do,  it  is  not  you." 

The  arrow  went  home.     His  eyes  snapped  with  anger. 

"You  took  such  lofty  ground  just  now  that  I  should 
hardly  have  supposed  the  attentions  of  Mr.  Wentworth 
meant  anything  so  serious.  I  thought  that  was  mere 
friendship." 

This  time  there  was  no  doubt  that  the  color  meant  anger. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  demanded,  looking  him  once 
more  full  in  the  eyes. 

"I  refer  to  what  the  world  says,  especially  as  he  himself 
is  such  a  model  of  all  the  Christian  virtues." 

462 


TEKPY'S    LAST   DANCE 

"What  the  world  says?  What  do  you  mean?"  she  per 
sisted,  never  taking  her  eyes  from  his  face. 

He  simply  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"So  I  assume  Mr.  Keith  is  the  fortunate  suitor  for  the 
remnant  of  your  affections  :  Keith  the  immaculate— Keith 
the  pure  and  pious  gentleman  who  trades  on  his  affections. 
I  wish  you  good  luck." 

At  his  insolence  Mrs.  Lancaster's  patience  suddenly 
snapped. 

"Go,"  she  said,  pointing  to  the  door.     "Go." 

When  Wickersham  walked  out  into  the  street,  his  face 
was  white  and  drawn,  and  a  strange  light  was  in  his  eyes. 
He  had  played  one  of  his  last  cards,  and  had  played  it  like 
a  fool.  Luck  had  gone  against  him,  and  he  had  lost  his 
head.  His  heart— that  heart  that  had  never  known  remorse 
and  rarely  dismay— began  to  sink.  Luck  had  been  going 
against  him  now  for  a  long  time,  so  long  that  it  had  swept 
away  his  fortune  and  most  of  his  credit.  What  was  worse 
to  him,  he  was  conscious  that  he  had  lost  his  nerve.  Where 
should  he  turn  ?  Unless  luck  turned  or  he  could  get  help 
he  would  go  down.  He  canvassed  the  various  means  of 
escape.  Man  after  man  had  fallen  away  from  him.  Every 
scheme  had  failed. 

He  attributed  it  all  to  Norman— to  Norman  and  Keith. 
Norman  had  ruined  him  in  New  York  $  Keith  had 
blocked  him  and  balked  him  in  the  South.  But  one 
resource  remained  to  him.  He  would  make  one  more 
supreme  effort.  Then,  if  he  failed !  He  thought  of  a 
locked  drawer  in  his  desk,  and  a  black  pistol  under  the 
papers  there.  His  cheek  blanched  at  the  thought,  but 
his  lips  closed  tight.  He  would  not  survive  disgrace. 
His  disgrace  meant  the  known  loss  of  his  fortune.  One 
thing  he  would  do.  Keith  had  escaped  him,  had  suc 
ceeded,  but  Norman  he  could  overthrow.  Norman  had 
been  struck  hard  ;  he  would  now  complete  his  ruin.  With 
this  mental  tonic  he  straightened  up  and  walked  rapidly 
down  the  street. 

463 


GORDON  KEITH 

That  evening  Wickersham  was  closeted  for  some  time 
with  a  man  who  had  of  late  come  into  especial  notice  as  a 
strong  and  merciless  financier— Mr.  Kestrel. 

Mr.  Kestrel  received  him  at  first  with  a  coldness  which 
might  have  repelled  a  less  determined  man.  He  had 
no  delusions  about  Wickersham ;  but  Wickersham  knew 
this,  and  unfolded  to  him,  with  plausible  frankness,  a 
scheme', which  had  much  reason  in  it.  He  had  at  the  same 
time  played  on  the  older  man's  foibles  with  great  astuteness, 
and  had  awakened  one  or  two  of  his  dormant  animosities. 
He  knew  that  Mr.  Kestrel  had  had  a  strong  feeling  against 
Norman  for  several  years. 

"You  are  one  of  the  few  men  who  do  not  have  to  fall 
down  and  worship  the  name  of  Wentworth,"  he  said. 

"Well,  I  rather  think  not,"  said  Mr.  Kestrel,  with  a  glint 
in  his  eyes,  as  he  recalled  Norman  Wentworth's  scorn  of 
him  at  the  board-meeting  years  before,  when  Norman  had 
defended  Keith  against  him. 

"—Or  this  new  man,  Keith,  who  is  undertaking  to  teach 
New  York  finance  1 " 

Mr.  Kestrel  gave  a  hard  little  laugh,  which  was  more 
like  a  cough  than  an  expression  of  mirth,  but  which  meant 
that  he  was  amused. 

"Well,  neither  do  I,"  said  Wickersham.  "To  tell  you 
frankly,  I  hate  them  both,  though  there  is  money,  and  big 
money,  in  this,  as  you  can  see  for  yourself  from  what  I  have 
said.  This  is  my  real  reason  for  wanting  you  in  it.  If  you 
jump  in  and  hammer  down  those  things,  you  will  clean 
them  out.  I  have  the  old  patents  to  all  the  lands  that 
Keith  sold  those  people.  They  antedate  the  titles  under 
which  Rawson  claims.  If  you  can  break  up  the  deal  now, 
we  will  go  in  and  recover  the  lands  from  Rawson.  Went- 
worth  is  so  deep  in  that  he'll  never  pull  through,  and  his 
friend  Keith  has  staked  everything  on  this  one  toss." 

Old  Kestrel's  parchment  face  was  inscrutable  as  he  gazed 
at  Wickersham  and  declared  that  he  did  not  know  about 
that.  He  did  not  believe  in  having  animosities  in  business 

464 


TEKPY'S   LAST  DANCE 

matters,  as  it  marred  one's  judgment.  But  Wickersham  knew 
enough  to  be  sure  that  the  seed  he  had  planted  would  bear 
fruit,  and  that  Kestrel  would  stake  something  on  the  chance. 

In  this  he  was  not  deceived.  The  next  day  Mr.  Kestrel 
acceded  to  his  plan. 

For  some  days  after  that  there  appeared  in  a  certain 
paper  a  series  of  attacks  on  various  lines  of  property  hold 
ings,  that  was  characterized  by  other  papers  as  a  "strong 
bearish  movement."  The  same  paper  contained  a  vicious 
article  about  the  attempt  to  unload  worthless  coal -lands  on 
gullible  Englishmen.  Meantime  Wickersham,  foreseeing 
failure,  acted  independently. 

The  attack  might  not  have  amounted  to  a  great  deal  but 
for  one  of  those  untimely  accidents  that  sometimes  over 
throw  all  calculations.  One  of  the  keenest  and  oldest  finan 
ciers  in  the  city  suddenly  dropped  dead,  and  a  stampede 
started  on  the  Stock  Exchange.  It  was  stayed  in  a  little 
while,  but  meantime  a  number  of  men  had  been  hard  hit, 
and  among  these  was  Norman  Wentworth.  The  papers 
next  day  announced  the  names  of  those  who  had  suffered, 
and  much  space  was  given  in  one  of  them  to  the  decline  of 
the  old  firm  of  Wentworth  &  Son,  whose  history  was  almost 
contemporary  with  that  of  New  York. 

By  noon  it  was  extensively  rumored  that  Wentworth  & 
Son  would  close  their  doors.  The  firm  which  had  lasted  for 
three  generations,  and  whose  name  had  been  the  synonym 
for  honor  and  for  philanthropy,  which  had  stood  as  the 
type  of  the  highest  that  can  exist  in  commerce,  would  go 
down.  Men  spoke  of  it  with  a  regret  which  did  them 
honor— hard  men  who  rarely  expressed  regret  for  the  losses 
of  another. 

It  was  rumored,  too,  that  Wickersham  &  Company  must 
assign  ;  but  this  caused  little  surprise  and  less  regret.  Aaron 
Wickersham  had  had  friends,  but  his  son  had  not  succeeded 
to  them. 

Keith,  having  determined  to  talk  to  Alice  Lancaster 
about  Lois,  was  calling  on  the  former  a  day  or  two  after 

465 


GORDON   KEITH 

her  interview  with  Wickersham.  She  was  still  some 
what  disturbed  over  it,  and  showed  it  in  her  manner  so 
clearly  that  Keith  asked  what  was  the  trouble. 

It  was  nothing  very  much,  she  said.  Only  she  had  broken 
finally  with  a  friend  she  had  known  a  long  time,  and  such 
things  upset  her. 

Keith  was  sympathetic,  and  suddenly,  to  his  surprise, 
she  broke  down  and  began  to  cry.  He  had  never  seen  her 
weep  before  since  she  sat,  as  a  girl,  in  the  pine-woods  and  he 
lent  her  his  handkerchief  to  dry  her  tears.  Something  in 
the  association  gave  him  a  feeling  of  unwonted  tender 
ness.  She  had  not  appeared  to  him  so  soft,  so  feminine,  in 
a  long  time.  He  essayed  to  comfort  her.  He,  too,  had 
broken  with  an  old  friend,  the  friend  of  a  lifetime,  and  he 
would  never  get  over  it. 

"Mine  was  such  a  blow  to  me,"  she  said,  wiping  her  eyes  ; 
"such  cruel  things  were  said  to  me.  I  did  not  think  any 
one  but  a  woman  would  have  said  such  biting  things  to  a 
woman." 

"It  was  Ferdy  Wickersham,  I  know,"  said  Keith,  his  eyes 
contracting;  "but  what  on  earth  could  he  have  said? 
What  could  he  have  dared  to  say  to  wound  you  so  ?  " 

"He  said  all  the  town  was  talking  about  me  and  Nor 
man."  She  began  to  cry  again.  "Norman,  dear  old  Nor 
man,  who  has  been  more  like  a  brother  to  me  than  any  one 
I  have  ever  known,  and  whom  I  would  give  the  world  to 
bring  back  happiness  to." 

"He  is  a  scoundrel ! "  exclaimed  Keith.  "I  have  stood 
all — more  than  I  ever  expected  to  stand  from  any  man 
living;  but  if  he  is  attacking  women"— he  was  speaking 
to  himself  rather  than  to  her— "I  will  unmask  him.  He  is 
not  worth  your  notice,"  he  said  kindly,  addressing  her  again. 
"Women  have  been  his  prey  ever  since  I  knew  him,  when 
he  was  but  a  young  boy."  Mrs.  Lancaster  dried  her 
eyes. 

"You  refer  to  the  story  that  he  had  married  that  poor 
girl  and  abandoned  her?" 

466 


TERPY'S   LAST  DANCE 

"Yes— partly  that.  That  is  the  worst  thing  I  know  of  him." 

"But  that  is  not  true.  However  cruel  he  is,  that  accusa 
tion  is  unfounded.  I  know  that  myself." 

"How  do  you  know  it?"  asked  Keith,  in  surprise. 

"He  told  me  the  whole  story  :  explained  the  thing  to  my 
satisfaction.  It  was  a  poor  crazy  girl  who  claimed  that  he 
married  her ;  said  Mr.  Rimmon  had  performed  the  cere 
mony.  She  was  crazy.  I  saw  Mr.  Rimmon's  letter  denying 
the  whole  thing." 

"Do  you  know  his  handwriting?  "  inquired  Keith,  grimly. 

"Whose?" 

"Well,  that  of  both  of  them  ?  " 

She  nodded,  and  Keith,  taking  out  his  pocket-book, 
opened  it  and  took  therefrom  a  slip  of  paper.  "Look 
at  that.  I  got  that  a  few  days  ago  from  the  witness  who 
was  present." 

.  "Why,  what  is  this  ?  "  She  sprang  up  in  her  excitement. 
"It  is  incredible!"  she  said  slowly.  "Why,  he  told  me 
the  story  with  the  utmost  circumstantiality." 

"He  lied  to  you,"  said  Keith,  grimly.  "And  Rimmon 
lied.  That  is  their  handwriting.  I  have  had  it  examined 
by  the  best  expert  in  New  York  City.  I  had  not  intended 
to  use  that  against  him,  but  only  to  clear  the  character  of 
that  poor  young  creature  whom  he  deceived  and  then  aban 
doned  j  but  as  he  is  defaming  her  here,  and  is  at  his  old 
trade  of  trying  to  deceive  women,  it  is  time  he  was  shown 
up  in  his  true  colors." 

She  gave  a  shudder  of  horror,  and  wiped  her  right  hand 
with  her  left.  "Oh,  to  think  that  he  dared  ! "  She  wiped 
her  hand  on  her  handkerchief. 

At  that  moment  a  servant  brought  in  a  card.  As  Mrs. 
Lancaster  gazed  at  it,  her  eyes  flashed  and  her  lip  curled. 

"Say  that  Mrs.  Lancaster  begs  to  be  excused." 

"Yes,  madam."  The  servant  hesitated.  "I  think  he 
heard  you  talking,  madam." 

"Say  that  Mrs.  Lancaster  begs  to  be  excused,"  she  said 
firmly. 

467 


GORDON    KEITH 

The  servant,  with  a  bow,  withdrew. 

She  handed  the  card  to  Keith.  On  it  was  the  name  of 
the  Rev.  William  H.  Kimmon. 

Mr.  Kimmon,  as  he  stood  in  the  hall,  was  in  unusually 
good  spirits,  though  slightly  perturbed.  He  had  determined 
to  carry  through  a  plan  that  he  had  long  pondered  over.  He 
had  decided  to  ask  Mrs.  Lancaster  to  become  Mrs.  Kimmon. 

As  Keith  glanced  toward  the  door,  he  caught  Mr.  Rim 
mon's  eye.  He  was  waiting  on  the  threshold  and  rubbing 
his  hands  with  eager  expectancy.  Just  then  the  servant 
gave  him  the  message.  Keith  saw  his  countenance  fall  and 
his  face  blanch.  He  turned,  picked  up  his  hat,  and  slipped 
out  of  the  door,  with  a  step  that  was  almost  a  slink. 

As  Mr.  Kimmon  passed  down  the  street  he  knew  that  he 
had  reached  a  crisis  in  his  life.  He  went  to  see  Wicker- 
sham,  but  that  gentleman  was  in  no  mood  for  condolences. 
Everything  had  gone  against  him.  He  was  facing  utter 
ruin.  Rimmon's  upbraiding  angered  him. 

"By  the  way,  you  are  the  very  man  I  wanted  to  see," 
he  said  grimly.  "I  want  you  to  sign  a  note  for  that 
twenty  thousand  I  lost  by  you  when  you  insisted  on  my 
holding  that  stock." 

Rimmon's  jaw  fell.  "That  you  held  for  me?  Sign  a 
note  !  Twenty-six  thousand  ! " 

"Yes.  Don't  pretend  innocence— not  on  me.  Save  that 
for  the  pulpit.  I  know  you,"  said  the  other,  with  a  chill 
ing  laugh. 

"But  you  were  to  carry  that.  That  was  a  part  of  our 
agreement.  Why,  twenty  thousand  would  take  everything 
I  have." 

"Don't  play  that  on  me,"  said  Wickersham,  coldly.  "It 
won't  work.  You  can  make  it  up  when  you  get  your 
widow." 

Rimmon  groaned  helplessly. 

"Come  ;  there  is  the  note.     Sign." 

Rimmon  began  to  expostulate,  and  finally  refused  point- 
blank  to  sign.  Wickersham  gazed  at  him  with  amusement. 

468 


TERPY'S   LAST  DANCE 

"You  sign  that,  or  I  will  serve  suit  on  you  in  a  half -hour, 
and  we  will  see  how  the  Rev.  Mr.  Kimmon  stands  when  my 
lawyers  are  through  with  him.  You  will  believe  in  hell 
then,  sure  enough." 

"You  won't  dare  do  it.  Your  marriage  would  come  out. 
Mrs.  Lancaster  would— 

"She  knows  it,"  said  Wickersham,  calmly.  And,  as 
Kimmon  looked  sceptical,  "I  told  her  myself  to  spare  you 
the  trouble.  Sign."  He  rose  and  touched  a  bell. 

Kimmon,  with  a  groan,  signed  the  paper. 

"You  must  have  showed  her  my  letter? " 

"Of  course,  I  did." 

"But  you  promised  me  not  to.     I  am  ruined  ! " 

"What  have  I  to  do  with  that?  'See  thou  to  that/  "  said 
Wickersham,  with  a  bitter  laugh. 

Rimmon's  face  paled  at  the  quotation.  He,  too,  had  be 
trayed  his  Lord. 

"Now  go."     Wickersham  pointed  to  the  door. 

Mr.  Rimmon  went  home  and  tried  to  write  a  letter  to 
Mrs.  Lancaster,  but  he  could  not  master  his  thoughts. 
That  pen  that  usually  flowed  so  glibly  failed  to  obey  him. 
He  was  in  darkness.  He  saw  himself  dishonored,  displaced. 
Wickersham  was  capable  of  anything.  He  did  not  know 
where  to  turn.  He  thought  of  his  brother  clergymen.  He 
knew  many  good  men  who  spent  their  lives  helping  others. 
But  something  deterred  him  from  applying  to  them  now. 
To  some  he  had  been  indifferent,  others  he  had  known  only 
socially.  Yet  others  had  withdrawn  themselves  from  him 
more  and  more  of  late.  He  had  attributed  it  to  their  envy 
or  their  folly.  He  suddenly  thought  of  old  Dr.  Templeton. 
He  had  always  ignored  that  old  man  as  a  sort  of  crack- 
brained  creature  who  had  not  been  able  to  keep  up  with 
the  world,  and  had  been  left  stranded,  doing  the  work  that 
properly  belonged  to  the  unsuccessful.  Curiously  enough, 
he  was  the  one  to  whom  the  unhappy  man  now  turned. 
Besides,  he  was  a  friend  of  Mrs.  Lancaster. 

A  half -hour  later  the  Rev.  Mr.  Rimmon  was  in  Dr.  Tem- 

469 


GORDON    KEITH 

pleton's  simple  study,  and  was  finding  a  singular  sense  of 
relief  in  pouring  out  his  troubles  to  the  old  clergyman.  He 
told  him  something  of  his  unhappy  situation— not  all,  it  is 
true,  but  enough  to  enable  the  other  to  see  how  grave  it 
was,  as  much  from  what  he  inferred  as  from  what  Simmon 
explained.  He  even  began  to  hope  again.  If  the  Doctor 
would  undertake  to  straighten  out  the  complications  he 
might  yet  pull  through.  To  his  dismay,  this  phase  of  the 
matter  did  not  appear  to  present  itself  to  the  old  man's 
mind.  It  was  the  sin  that  he  had  committed  that  had 
touched  him. 

"Let  us  carry  it  where  only  we  can  find  relief,'7  he  said. 
"Let  us  take  it  to  the  Throne  of  Grace,  where  we  can  lay 
all  our  burdens  "  ;  and  before  Simmon  knew  it,  he  was  on 
his  knees,  praying  for  him  as  if  he  had  been  a  very  outcast. 

When  the  Sev.  Mr.  Simmon  came  out  of  the  shabby  little 
study,  though  he  had  not  gotten  the  relief  he  had  sought, 
he,  somehow,  felt  a  little  comforted,  while  at  the  same  time 
he  felt  humble.  He  had  one  of  those  brief  intervals  of  feel 
ing  that,  perhaps,  there  was,  after  all,  something  that  that 
old  man  had  found  which  he  had  missed,  and  he  determined 
to  find  it.  But  Mr.  Simmon  had  wandered  far  out  of  the 
way.  He  had  had  a  glimpse  of  the  pearl,  but  the  price 
was  great,  and  he  had  not  been  able  to  pay  it  all. 

Wickersham  discounted  the  note ;  but  the  amount  was 
only  a  bagatelle  to  him :  a  bucket-shop  had  swallowed  it 
within  an  hour.  He  had  lost  his  instinct.  It  was  only  the 
love  of  gambling  that  remained. 

Only  one  chance  appeared  to  remain  for  him.  He  had 
made  up  with  Louise  Wentworth  after  a  fashion.  He  must 
get  hold  of  her  in  some  way.  He  might  obtain  more  money 
from  her.  The  method  he  selected  was  a  desperate  one  j 
but  he  was  a  desperate  man. 

After  long  pondering,  he  sat  down  and  wrote  her  a  note, 
asking  her  "to  meet  some  friends  of  his,  a  Count  and 
Countess  Torelli,  at  supper  "  next  evening. 

470 


CHAPTER  XXXII 
THE   RUN   ON   THE   BANK 

IT  was  the  day  after  the  events  just  recorded  that  Keith's 
deal  was  concluded.   The  attack  on  him  and  the  attempt 
made  by  Wickersham  and  Kestrel  to  break  up  his  deal  had 
failed,  and  the  deeds  and  money  were  passed. 

Keith  was  on  his  way  back  to  his  office  from  his  final  in 
terview  with  the  representative  of  the  syndicate  that  had 
bought  the  properties.  He  was  conscious  of  a  curious  sen 
sation,  partly  of  exhilaration,  partly  of  almost  awe,  as  he 
walked  through  the  crowded  streets,  where  every  one  was 
bent  on  the  same  quest :  gold.  At  last  he  had  won.  He 
was  rich.  He  wondered,  as  he  walked  along,  if  any  of  the 
men  he  shouldered  were  as  rich  as  he.  Norman  and  Ferdy 
Wickersham  recurred  to  him.  Both  had  been  much 
wealthier ;  but  Wickersham,  he  knew,  was  in  straits,  and 
Norman  was  in  some  trouble.  He  was  unfeignedly  glad 
about  Wickersham  ;  but  the  recollection  of  Norman  clouded 
his  face. 

It  was  with  a  pang  that  he  recalled  Norman's  recent 
conduct  to  him— a  pang  that  one  who  had  always  been  his 
friend  should  have  changed  so ;  but  that  was  the  way  of 
the  world.  This  reflection,  however,  was  not  consoling. 

He  reached  his  office  and  seated  himself  at  his  desk,  to 
take  another  look  at  his  papers.  Before  he  opened  them 
he  rose  and  locked  the  door,  and  opening  a  large  envelope, 
spread  the  papers  out  on  the  desk  before  him. 

471 


GORDON   KEITH 

He  thought  of  his  father.  He  must  write  and  tell  him 
of  his  success.  Then  he  thought  of  his  old  home.  He  re 
membered  his  resolution  to  restore  it  and  make  it  what 
it  used  to  be.  But  how  much  he  could  do  with  the  money 
it  would  take  to  fit  up  the  old  place  in  the  manner  he 
had  contemplated !  By  investing  it  judiciously  he  could 
double  it. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  step  outside  and  a  knock  at  his 
door,  followed  by  voices  in  the  outer  office.  Keith  rose, 
and  putting  his  papers  back  in  his  pocket,  opened  the  door. 
For  a  second  he  had  a  mingled  sensation  of  pleasure  and 
surprise.  His  father  stood  there,  his  bag  clutched  in  his 
hand.  He  looked  tired,  and  had  aged  some  since  Keith 
saw  him  last ;  but  his  face  wore  the  old  smile  that  always 
illumined  it  when  it  rested  on  his  son. 

Keith  greeted  him  warmly  and  drew  him  inside.  "I  was 
just  thinking  of  you,  sir." 

"You  would  not  come  to  see  me,  so  I  have  come  to  see 
you.  I  have  heard  from  you  so  rarely  that  I  was  afraid 
you  were  sick."  His  eyes  rested  fondly  on  Gordon's  face. 

"No  5  I  have  been  so  busy  j  that  is  all.  Well,  sir,  I  have 
won."  His  eyes  were  sparkling. 

The  old  gentleman's  face  lit  up. 

"You  have?  Found  Phrony,  have  you?  I  am  so  glad. 
It  will  give  old  Kawson  a  new  lease  of  life.  I  saw  him  after 
he  got  back.  He  has  failed  a  good  deal  lately." 

"No,  sir.  I  have  found  her,  too  j  but  I  mean  I  have  won 
out  at  last." 

"Ah,  you  have  won  her?  I  congratulate  you.  I  hope 
she  will  make  you  happy." 

Keith  laughed. 

"I  don't  mean  that.  I  mean  I  have  sold  my  lands  at  last. 
I  closed  this  morning  with  the  Englishmen,  and  received 
the  money." 

The  General  smiled. 

"Ah,  you  have,  have  you?  That's  very  good.  I  am 
glad  for  old  Adam  Eawson's  sake." 

472 


THE   BUN   ON  THE    BANK 

"I  was  afraid  he  would  die  before  the  deeds  passed," 
said  Keith.  "But  see,  here  are  the  drafts  to  my  order." 
He  spread  them  out.  "This  one  is  my  commission. 
And  I  have  the  same  amount  of  common  stock." 

His  father  made  no  comment  on  this,  but  presently 
said :  "You  will  have  enough  to  restore  the  old  place  a 
little." 

"How  much  would  it  cost  to  fix  up  the  place  as  you  think 
it  ought  to  be  fixed  up  ?  " 

"Oh,  some  thousands  of  dollars.  You  see,  the  house  is 
much  out  of  repair,  and  the  quarters  ought  really  all  to  be 
rebuilt.  Old  Charlotte's  house  I  have  kept  in  repair,  and 
Bichard  now  sleeps  in  the  house,  as  he  has  gotten  so 
rheumatic.  I  should  think  five  or  six  thousand  dollars 
might  do  it." 

"I  can  certainly  spare  that  much,"  said  Keith,  laughing. 

"How  is  Norman?  "  asked  the  General. 

Keith  was  conscious  of  a  feeling  of  discontent.  His 
countenance  fell. 

"Why,  I  don't  know.  I  don't  see  much  of  him  these 
days." 

"Ah  !     I  want  to  go  to  see  him." 

"The  fact  is,  we  have— er — had—.  There  has  been  an 
unfortunate  misunderstanding  between  us.  No  one  regrets 
it  more  than  I ;  but  I  think  I  can  say  it  was  not  at  all  my 
fault,  and  I  have  done  all  and  more  than  was  required 
of  me." 

"Ah,  I  am  very  sorry  for  that.  It's  a  pity— a  pity ! " 
said  the  old  General.  "What  was  it  about?  " 

"Well,  I  don't  care  to  talk  about  it,  sir.  But  I  can 
assure  you,  I  was  not  in  the  least  to  blame.  It  was  caused 
mainly,  I  believe,  by  that  fellow,  Wickersham." 

"He's  a  scoundrel ! "  said  the  General,  with  sudden  ve 
hemence. 

"He  is,  sir  !  " 

"I  will  go  and  see  Norman.  I  see  by  the  papers  he  is  in 
some  trouble." 

473 


GOKDON  KEITH 

"I  fear  lie  is,  sir.     His  bank  has  been  declining." 

"Perhaps  you  can  help  him?"  His  face  lit  up.  "You 
remember,  he  once  wrote  you— a  long  time  ago?  " 

"I  remember ;  I  have  repaid  that/7  said  Keith,  quickly. 
"He  has  treated  me  very  badly."  He  gave  a  brief  account 
of  the  trouble  between  them. 

The  old  General  leant  back  and  looked  at  his  son  in 
tently.  His  face  was  very  grave  and  showed  that  he  was 
reflecting  deeply. 

"Gordon,"  he  said  presently,  "the  Devil  is  standing  very 
close  to  you.  A  real  misunderstanding  should  always  be 
cleared  up.  You  must  go  to  him." 

"What  do  you  mean,  sir?"  asked  his  son,  in  some 
confusion. 

"You  are  at  the  parting  of  the  ways.  A  gentleman 
cannot  hesitate.  Such  a  debt  never  can  be  paid  by  a  gen 
tleman,"  he  said  calmly.  "You  must  help  him,  even  if  you 
cannot  restore  the  old  place.  Elphinstone  has  gone  for  a 
debt  before."  He  rose  as  if  there  was  nothing  more  to  be 
said.  "Well,  I  will  go  and  wait  for  you  at  your  rooms." 
He  walked  out. 

Keith  sat  and  reflected.  How  different  he  was  from  his 
father  !  How  different  from  what  he  had  been  years  ago  ! 
Then  he  had  had  an  affection  for  the  old  home  and  all  that 
it  represented.  He  had  worked  with  the  idea  of  winning 
it  back  some  day.  It  had  been  an  inspiration  to  him.  But 
now  it  was  wealth  that  he  had  begun  to  seek. 

It  came  to  him  clearly  how  much  he  had  changed.  The 
process  all  lay  before  him.  It  had  grown  with  his  success, 
and  had  kept  pace  with  it  in  an  almost  steady  ratio  since 
he  had  set  success  before  him  as  a  goal.  He  was  angry 
with  himself  to  find  that  he  was  thinking  now  of  success 
merely  as  Wealth.  Once  he  had  thought  of  Honor  and 
Achievement,  even  of  Duty.  He  remembered  when  he  had 
not  hesitated  to  descend  into  what  appeared  the  very  jaws 
of  death,  because  it  seemed  to  him  his  duty.  He  wondered 
if  he  would  do  the  same  now. 

474 


THE   KUN   ON   THE    BANK 

He  felt  that  this  was  a  practical  view  which  he  was 
now  taking  of  life.  He  was  now  a  practical  man ;  yes, 
practical  like  old  Kestrel,  said  his  better  self.  He  felt  that 
he  was  not  as  much  of  a  gentleman  as  he  used  to  be.  He 
was  further  from  his  father  j  further  from  what  Norman 
was.  This  again  brought  Norman  to  his  mind.  If  the 
rumors  which  he  had  heard  were  true,  Norman  was  now  in 
a  tight  place. 

As  his  father  had  said,  perhaps  he  might  be  able  to  help 
him.  But  why  should  he  do  it?  If  Norman  had  helped 
him  in  the  past,  had  he  not  already  paid  him  back  ?  And 
had  not  Norman  treated  him  badly  of  late  without  the  least 
cause— met  his  advances  with  a  rebuff?  No ;  he  would 
show  him  that  he  was  not  to  be  treated  so.  He  still  had 
a  small  account  in  Norman's  bank,  which  he  had  not  drawn 
out  because  he  had  not  wished  to  let  Norman  see  that  he 
thought  enough  of  his  coldness  to  make  any  change  ;  but  he 
would  put  his  money  now  into  old  Creamer's  bank.  After 
looking  at  his  drafts  again,  he  unlocked  his  door  and  went 
out  on  the  street. 

There  was  more  commotion  on  the  street  than  he  had 
seen  in  some  days.  Men  were  hurrying  at  a  quicker  pace 
than  the  rapid  gait  which  was  always  noticeable  in  that 
thoroughfare.  Groups  occasionally  formed  and,  after  a 
word  or  two,  dispersed.  Newsboys  were  crying  extras  and 
announcing  some  important  news  in  an  unintelligible  jargon. 
Messengers  were  dashing  about,  rushing  in  and  out  of  the 
big  buildings.  Something  unusual  was  evidently  going  on. 
As  Keith,  on  his  way  to  the  bank  of  which  Mr.  Creamer 
was  president,  passed  the  mouth  of  the  street  in  which 
Norman's  office  was  situated,  he  looked  down  and  saw  quite 
a  crowd  assembled.  The  street  was  full.  He  passed  on, 
however,  and  went  into  the  big  building,  on  the  first  floor 
of  which  Creamer's  bank  had  its  offices.  He  walked 
through  to  the  rear  of  the  office,  to  the  door  of  Mr.  Creamer's 
private  office,  and  casually  asked  the  nearest  clerk  for  Mr. 
Creamer.  The  young  man  said  he  was  engaged.  Keith, 

475 


GOKDON   KEITH 

however,  walked  up  to  the  door,  and  was  about  to  knock, 
when,  at  a  word  spoken  by  his  informant,  another  clerk 
came  hastily  forward  and  said  that  Mr.  Creamer  was  very 
busily  engaged  and  coulcj.  see  no  one. 

"Well,  he  will  see  me,"  said  Keith,  feeling  suddenly  the 
courage  that  the  possession  of  over  a  quarter  of  a  million 
dollars  gave,  and  he  boldly  knocked  on  the  door,  and, 
without  waiting  to  be  invited  in,  opened  it. 

Mr.  Creamer  was  sitting  at  his  desk,  and  two  or  three 
other  men,  one  or  two  of  whom  Keith  had  seen  before, 
were  seated  in  front  of  him  in  close  conference.  They  stared 
at  the  intruder. 

"Mr.  Keith."  Mr.  Creamer's  tone  conveyed  not  the  least 
feeling,  gave  no  idea  either  of  welcome  or  surprise. 

"Excuse  me  for  interrupting  you  for  a  moment,"  said 
Keith.  "I  want  to  open  an  account  here.  I  have  a  draft 
on  London,  which  I  should  like  to  deposit  and  have  you 
collect  for  me." 

The  effect  was  immediate ;  indeed,  one  might  almost 
say  magical.  The  atmosphere  of  the  room  as  suddenly 
changed  as  if  May  should  be  dropped  into  the  lap  of 
December.  The  old  banker's  face  relaxed.  He  touched  a 
bell  under  the  lid  of  his  desk,  and  at  the  same  moment 
pushed  back  his  chair. 

"Gentlemen,  let  me  introduce  my  friend,  Mr.  Keith." 
He  presented  Keith  in  turn  to  each  of  his  companions,  who 
greeted  him  with  that  degree  of  mingled  reserve  and  civility 
which  is  due  to  a  man  who  has  placed  a  paper  capable  of 
effecting  such  a  marked  change  in  the  hands  of  the  most 
self-contained  banker  in  Bankers'  Eow. 

A  tap  at  the  door  announced  an  answer  to  the  bell,  and 
the  next  moment  a  clerk  came  in. 

"Ask  Mr.  Penwell  to  come  here,"  said  Mr.  Creamer. 
"Mr.  Penwell  is  the  head  of  our  foreign  department,"  he 
added  in  gracious  explanation  to  Keith. 

"Mr.  Keith,  gentlemen,  is  largely  interested  in  some  of 
those  Southern  mining  properties  that  you  have  heard  me 

476 


THE   KUN   ON   THE   BANK 

speak  of,  and  has  just  put  through  a  very  fine  deal  with  an 
English  syndicate." 

The  door  opened,  and  a  cool-looking,  slender  man  of  fifty- 
odd,  with  a  thin  gray  face,  thin  gray  hair  very  smoothly 
brushed,  and  keen  gray  eyes,  entered.  He  was  introduced 
to  Mr.  Keith.  After  Mr.  Creamer  had  stated  the  purpose 
of  Keith's  visit  and  had  placed  the  drafts  in  Mr.  PenwelPs 
hands,  the  latter  stated,  as  an  interesting  item  just  off  the 
ticker,  that  he  understood  Wentworth  was  in  trouble.  Some 
one  had  just  come  and  said  that  there  was  a  run  on  his  bank. 

"Those  attacks  on  him  in  the  newspapers  must  have  hurt 
him  considerably,"  observed  one  of  the  visitors. 

"Yes,  he  has  been  a  good  deal  hurt,"  said  Mr.  Creamer. 
"We  are  all  right,  Penwell?"  He  glanced  at  his  subordi 
nate. 

Mr.  Penwell  nodded  with  deep  satisfaction. 

"So  are  we,"  said  one  of  the  visitors.  "This  is  the  end  of 
Wentworth  &  Son.  He  will  go  down." 

"He  has  been  going  down  for  some  time.  Wife  too  ex 
travagant." 

This  appeared  to  be  the  general  opinion.  But  Keith 
scarcely  heard  the  speakers.  He  stood  in  a  maze. 

The  announcement  of  Norman's  trouble  had  come  to 
him  like  a  thunder-clap.  And  he  was  standing  now  as  in  a 
dream.  Could  it  be  possible  that  Norman  was  going  to 
fail  ?  And  if  he  failed,  would  this  be  all  it  meant  to  these 
men  who  had  known  him  always  f 

The  vision  of  an  old  gentleman  sitting  in  his  home, 
which  he  had  lost,  came  back  to  him  across  the  years. 

"That  young  man  is  a  gentleman,"  he  heard  him  say. 
"It  takes  a  gentleman  to  write  such  a  letter  to  a  friend  in 
misfortune.  Write  to  him  and  say  we  will  never  forget 
his  kindness."  He  heard  the  same  old  gentleman  say,  after 
years  of  poverty,  "You  must  pay  your  debt  though  I  give 
up  Elphinstone." 

Was  he  not  now  forgetting  Norman's  kindness  ?  But  was 
it  not  too  late?  Could  he  save  him?  Would  he  not  sim- 

477 


GOKDON   KEITH 

ply  be  throwing  away  his  money  to  offer  it  to  him  ?     Sud 
denly  again,  he  seemed  to  hear  his  father's  voice  : 

"The  Devil  is  standing  close  behind  you.  You  are  at  the 
parting  of  the  ways.  A  gentleman  cannot  hesitate." 

"Mr.  Creamer/'  he  said  suddenly,  "why  don't  Norman 
Wentworth's  friends  come  to  his  rescue  and  help  him  out 
of  his  difficulties'?" 

The  question  might  have  come  from  the  sky,  it  was  so 
unexpected.  It  evidently  caught  the  others  unprepared 
with  an  answer.  They  simply  smiled  vaguely.  Mr.  Creamer 
said  presently,  rubbing  his  chin  : 

"Why,  I  don't  suppose  they  know  the  extent  of  his 
difficulties." 

"And  I  guess  he  has  no  collateral  to  offer?"  said  another. 

"Collateral !     No  ;  everything  he  has  is  pledged." 

"But  I  mean,  why  don't  they  lend  him  money  without 
collateral,  if  necessary,  to  tide  him  over  his  trouble  f  He 
is  a  man  of  probity.  He  has  lived  here  all  his  life.  He 
must  have  many  friends  able  to  help  him.  They  know 
that  if  he  had  time  to  realize  on  his  properties  he  would 
probably  pull  through." 

With  one  accord  the  other  occupants  of  the  room 
turned  and  looked  at  Keith. 

"Did  you  say  you  had  made  a  fortune  in  mining  deals?  " 
asked  one  of  the  gentlemen  across  the  table,  gazing  at 
Keith  through  his  gold-rimmed  glasses  with  a  wintry  little 
smile. 

"No,  I  did  not.  Whatever  was  said  on  that  subject  Mr. 
Creamer  said." 

"Oh  !  That's  so.  He  did.  Well,  you  are  the  sort  of  a 
man  we  want  about  here." 

This  remark  was  received  with  some  amusement  by 
the  others ;  but  Keith  passed  it  by,  and  turned  to  Mr. 
Creamer. 

"Mr.  Creamer,  how  much  money  will  you  give  me  on 
this  draft?  This  is  mine.  The  other  I  wish  to  deposit 
here." 

478 


THE   RUN   ON   THE   BANK 

"Why,  I  don't  know  just  what  the  exchange  would  be. 
What  is  the  exchange  on  this,  Penwell  f  " 

"Will  you  cash  this  draft  for  me?"  asked  Keith. 

"Certainly." 

"Well,  will  you  do  me  a  further  favor?  It  might  make 
very  little  difference  if  I  were  to  make  a  deposit  in  Norman's 
bank ;  but  if  you  were  to  make  such  a  deposit  there,  it 
would  probably  reassure  people,  and  the  run  might  be 
stopped.  I  have  known  of  one  or  two  instances." 

Mr.  Creamer  agreed,  and  the  result  was  a  sort  of  reac 
tion  in  Norman's  favor,  in  sentiment  if  not  in  action.  It 
was  arranged  that  Keith  should  go  and  make  a  deposit, 
and  that  Mr.  Creamer  should  send  a  man  to  make  a 
further  one  and  offer  Wentworth  aid. 

When  Gordon  Keith  reached  the  block  on  which  stood 
Norman's  bank,  the  street  was  already  filled  with  a  dense 
crowd,  pushing,  growling,  complaining,  swearing,  threaten 
ing.  It  was  evidently  a  serious  affair,  and  Keith,  trying  to 
make  his  way  through  the  mob,  heard  many  things  about 
Norman  which  he  never  could  have  believed  it  would  have 
been  possible  to  hear.  The  crowd  was  in  an  ugly  mood,  and 
was  growing  uglier.  A  number  of  policemen  were  trying 
to  keep  the  people  in  line  so  that  they  could  take  their 
turn.  Keith  found  it  impossible  to  make  his  way  to  the 
front.  His  explanation  that  he  wished  to  make  a  deposit 
was  greeted  with  shouts  of  derision. 

"Stand  back  there,  young  man.  We've  heard  that  be 
fore  ;  you  can't  work  that  on  us.  We  would  all  like  to 
make  deposits— somewhere  else." 

"Except  them  what's  already  made  'em,"  some  one  added, 
at  which  there  was  a  laugh. 

Keith  applied  to  a  policeman  with  hardly  more  success, 
until  he  opened  the  satchel  he  carried,  and  mentioned  the 
name  of  the  banker  who  was  to  follow  him.  On  this  the 
officer  called  another,  and  after  a  hurried  word  the  two 
began  to  force  their  way  through  the  crowd,  with  Keith  be 
tween  them.  By  dint  of  commanding,  pushing,  and  explain- 

479 


GORDON   KEITH 

ing,  they  at  length  reached  the  entrance  to  the  bank,  and 
finally  made  their  way,  hot  and  perspiring,  to  the  counter. 
A  clerk  was  at  work  at  every  window  counting  out  money 
as  fast  as  checks  were  presented. 

Just  before  Keith  reached  the  counter,  on  glancing  through 
an  open  door,  he  saw  Norman  sitting  at  his  desk,  white 
and  grim.  His  burning  eyes  seemed  deeper  than  ever.  He 
glanced  up,  and  Keith  thought  he  caught  his  gaze  on  him, 
but  he  was  not  sure,  for  he  looked  away  so  quickly.  The 
next  moment  he  walked  around  inside  the  counter  and 
spoke  to  a  clerk,  who  opened  a  ledger  and  gave  him  a  mem 
orandum.  Then  he  came  forward  and  spoke  to  a  teller  at 
the  receiving- window. 

"Do  you  know  that  man  with  the  two  policemen1?  That 
is  Mr.  Gordon  Keith.  Here  is  his  balance  ;  pay  it  to  him 
as  soon  as  he  reaches  the  window." 

The  teller,  bending  forward,  gazed  earnestly  out  of  the 
small  grated  window  over  the  heads  of  those  nearest  him. 
Keith  met  his  gaze,  and  the  teller  nodded.  Norman  turned 
away  without  looking,  and  seated  himself  on  a  chair  in  the 
rear  of  the  bank. 

When  Keith  reached  the  window,  the  white-faced  teller 
said  immediately : 

"Your  balance,  Mr.  Keith,  is  so  much ;  you  have  a 
check  ?  "  He  extended  his  hand  to  take  it. 

"No,"  said  Keith;  "I  have  not  come  to  draw  out  any 
money.  I  have  come  to  make  a  deposit." 

The  teller  was  so  much  astonished  that  he  simply  ejacu 
lated  : 

«Sir_?» 

"I  wish  to  make  a  deposit,"  said  Keith,  raising  his  voice 
a  little,  and  speaking  with  great  distinctness. 

His  voice  had  the  quality  of  carrying,  and  a  silence 
settled  on  the  crowd,— -one  of  those  silences  that  sometimes 
fall,  even  on  a  mob,  when  the  wholly  unexpected  hap 
pens,— so  that  every  word  that  was  spoken  was  heard 
distinctly. 

480 


THE   RUN   ON   THE   BANK 

"Ah— we  are  not  taking  deposits  to-day,"  said  the  aston 
ished  teller,  doubtfully. 

Keith  smiled. 

"Well,  I  suppose  there  is  no  objection  to  doing  so?  I 
have  an  account  in  this  bank,  and  I  wish  to  add  to  it.  I 
am  not  afraid  of  it." 

The  teller  gazed  at  him  in  blank  amazement;  he  evi 
dently  thought  that  Keith  was  a  little  mad.  He  opened 
his  mouth  as  if  to  speak,  but  said  nothing  from  sheer 
astonishment. 

"I  have  confidence  enough  in  this  bank,"  pursued  Keith, 
"to  put  my  money  here,  and  here  I  propose  to  put  it,  and 
I  am  not  the  only  one ;  there  will  be  others  here  in  a  little 
while." 

"I  shall— really,  I  shall  have  to  ask  Mr.  Wentworth," 
faltered  the  clerk. 

"Mr.  Wentworth  has  nothing  to  do  with  it,"  said  Keith, 
positively,  and  to  close  the  discussion,  he  lifted  his  satchel 
through  the  window,  and,  turning  it  upside  down,  emptied 
before  the  astonished  teller  a  pile  of  bills  which  made  him 
gasp.  "Enter  that  to  my  credit,"  said  Keith. 

"How  much  is  it?" 

The  sum  that  Keith  mentioned  made  him  gasp  yet  more. 
It  was  up  in  the  hundreds  of  thousands. 

"There  will  be  more  here  in  a  little  while."  He  turned 
his  head  and  glanced  toward  the  door.  "Ah,  here  comes 
some  one  now,"  he  said,  as  he  recognized  one  of  the  men 
whom  he  had  recently  left  at  the  council  board,  who  was 
then  pushing  his  way  forward,  under  the  guidance  of  sev 
eral  policemen. 

The  amount  deposited  by  the  banker  was  much  larger 
than  Keith  had  expected,  and  a  few  well-timed  words  to 
those  about  him  had  a  marked  effect  upon  the  depositors. 
He  said  their  apprehension  was  simply  absurd.  They,  of 
course,  had  the  right  to  draw  out  their  money,  if  they 
wished  it,  and  they  would  get  it,  but  he  advised  them  to 
go  home  and  wait  to  do  so  until  the  crowd  dispersed.  The 

481 


GOKDON   KEITH 

bank  was  perfectly  sound,  and  they  could  not  break  it  un 
less  they  could  also  break  its  friends. 

A  few  of  the  struggling  depositors  dropped  out  of  line, 
some  of  the  others  saying  that,  as  they  had  waited  so  long, 
they  guessed  they  would  get  their  money  now. 

The  advice  given,  perhaps,  had  an  added  effect,  as  at  that 
moment  a  shriek  arose  from  a  woman  near  the  door,  who 
declared  that  her  pocket  had  been  picked  of  the  money  she 
had  just  drawn. 

The  arrival  of  the  new  depositors,  and  the  spreading 
through  the  crowd  of  the  information  that  they  represented 
several  of  the  strongest  banks  in  the  city,  quieted  the  ap 
prehensions  of  the  depositors,  and  a  considerable  number  of 
them  abandoned  the  idea  of  drawing  out  their  money  and 
went  off.  Though  many  of  them  remained,  it  was  evident 
that  the  dangerous  run  had  subsided.  A  notice  was  posted 
on  the  front  door  of  the  bank  that  the  bank  would  remain 
open  until  eight  o'clock  and  would  be  open  the  following 
morning  at  eight,  which  had  something  to  do  with  allay 
ing  the  excitement  of  the  depositors. 

That  afternoon  Keith  went  back  to  the  bank.  Though 
depositors  were  still  drawing  out  their  money,  the  scene 
outside  was  very  different  from  that  which  he  had  witnessed 
earlier  in  the  day.  Keith  asked  for  Mr.  Wentworth,  and 
was  shown  to  his  room.  When  Keith  entered,  Norman 
was  sitting  at  his  desk  figuring  busily.  Keith  closed  the 
door  behind  him  and  waited.  The  lines  were  deep  on 
Norman's  face ;  but  the  hunted  look  it  had  borne  in  the 
morning  had  passed  away,  and  grim  resolution  had  taken 
its  place.  When  at  length  he  glanced  up,  his  already  white 
face  grew  yet  whiter.  The  next  second  a  flush  sprang  to  his 
cheeks  ;  he  pushed  back  his  chair  and  rose,  and,  taking  one 
step  forward,  stretched  out  his  hand. 

"Keith!" 

Keith  took  his  hand  with  a  grip  that  drove  the  blood 
from  the  ends  of  Norman's  fingers. 

"  Norman!" 

482 


THE   KUN   ON   THE   BANK 

Norman  drew  a  chair  close  to  his  desk,  and  Keith  sat 
down.  Norman  sank  into  his,  looked  down  on  the  floor 
for  a  second,  then,  raising  his  eyes,  looked  full  into  Keith's 
eyes. 

" Keith—  f  "  His  voice  failed  him  ;  he  glanced  away, 
reached  over,  and  took  up  a  paper  lying  near,  and  the 
next  instant  leant  forward,  and  folding  his  arms  on  the 
desk,  dropped  his  head  on  them,  shaken  with  emotion. 

Keith  rose  from  his  chair,  and  bending  over  him,  laid  his 
hand  on  his  head,  as  he  might  have  done  to  a  younger 
brother. 

"Don't,  Norman,"  he  said  helplessly ;  "it  is  all  right." 
He  moved  his  hand  down  Norman's  arm  with  a  touch  as 
caressing  as  if  he  had  been  a  little  child,  but  all  he  said  was  : 
"Don't,  Norman  j  it  is  all  right." 

Suddenly  Norman  sat  up. 

"It  is  all  wrong  ! "  he  said  bitterly.  "I  have  been  a  fool. 
I  had  no  right—.  But  I  was  mad !  I  have  wrecked  my 
life.  But  I  was  insane.  I  was  deceived.  I  do  not  know 
even  now  how  it  happened.  I  ought  to  have  known,  but— 
I  learned  only  just  now.  I  can  never  explain.  I  ask  your 
pardon  humbly." 

Keith  leant  forward  and  laid  his  hand  upon  him  affec 
tionately. 

"There,  there !  You  owe  me  no  apology,  and  I  ask  no 
explanation  ;  it  was  all  a  great  mistake." 

"Yes,  and  all  my  fault.  She  was  not  to  blame ;  it  was 
my  folly.  I  drove  her  to— desperation." 

"I  want  to  ask  just  one  thing.  Was  it  Ferdy  Wicker- 
sham  who  made  you  believe  I  had  deceived  you?"  asked 
Keith,  standing  straight  above  him. 

"In  part— mainly.  But  I  was  mad."  He  drew  his  hand 
across  his  forehead,  sat  back  in  his  chair,  and,  with  eyes 
averted,  sighed  deeply.  His  thoughts  were  evidently  far 
from  Keith.  Keith's  eyes  rested  on  him,  and  his  face  paled 
a  little  with  growing  resolution. 

"One  question,  Norman.  Pardon  me  for  asking  it.  My 

483 


GOKDON    KEITH 

only  reason  is  that  I  would  give  my  life,  a  worthless  life 
you  once  saved,  to  see  you  as  you  once  were.  I  know  more 
than  you  think  I  know.  You  love  her  still  ?  I  know  you 
must." 

Norman  turned  his  eyes  and  let  them  rest  on  Keith's 
face.  They  were  filled  with  anguish. 

"Better  than  my  life.     I  adore  her." 

Keith  drew  in  his  breath  with  a  long  sigh  of  relief  and  of 
-content. 

"Oh,  I  have  no  hope,"  Norman  went  on  despairingly. 
"I  gave  her  every  right  to  doubt  it.  I  killed  her  love.  I 
do  not  blame  her.  It  was  all  my  fault.  I  know  it  now, 
when  it  is  too  late." 

"It  is  not  too  late." 

Norman  shook  his  head,  without  even  looking  at  Keith. 

"Too  late,"  he  said,  speaking  to  himself. 

Keith  rose  to  his  feet. 

"It  is  not  too  late,"  he  declared,  with  a  sudden  ring  in 
his  voice  ;  "she  loves  you." 

Norman  shook  his  head. 

"She  hates  me  ;  I  deserve  it." 

"In  her  heart  she  adores  you,"  said  Keith,  in  a  tone  of 
conviction. 

Norman  turned  away  with  a  half-bitter  laugh. 

"You  don't  know." 

"I  do  know,  and  you  will  know  it,  too.  How  long 
shall  you  be  here? " 

"I  shall  spend  the  night  here,"  said  Norman.  "I  must  be 
ready  for  whatever  may  happen  to-morrow  morning.— I 
have  not  thanked  you  yet."  He  extended  his  hand  to 
Keith.  "You  stemmed  the  tide  for  me  to-day.  I  know 
what  it  must  have  cost  you.  I  cannot  regret  it,  and  I 
know  you  never  will ;  and  I  beg  you  to  believe  that, 
though  I  go  down  to-morrow,  I  shall  never  forget  it,  and  if 
God  spares  me,  I  will  repay  you." 

Keith's  eyes  rested  on  him  calmly. 

"You  paid  me  long  ago,  Norman.  I  was  paying  a 

484 


THE   RUN   ON   THE   BANK 

debt  to-day,  or  trying  to  pay  one,  in  a  small  way.  It  was 
not  I  who  made  that  deposit  to-day,  but  a  better  man  and 
a  finer  gentleman  than  I  can  ever  hope  to  be— my  father. 
It  was  he  who  inspired  me  to  do  that ;  he  paid  that  debt." 

From  what  Keith  had  heard,  he  felt  that  he  was  justified 
in  going  to  see  Mrs.  Wentworth.  Possibly,  it  was  not  too 
late  j  possibly,  he  might  be  able  to  do  something  to  clear 
away  the  misapprehension  under  which  she  labored,  and  to 
make  up  the  trouble  between  her  and  Norman.  Norman 
still  loved  her  dearly,  and  Keith  believed  that  she  cared 
for  him.  Lois  Huntington  always  declared  that  she  did, 
and  she  could  not  have  been  deceived. 

That  she  had  been  foolish  Keith  knew  ;  that  she  had  been 
wicked  he  did  not  believe.  She  was  self-willed,  vain,  ex 
travagant  ;  but  deep  under  her  cold  exterior  burned  fires 
of  which  she  had  once  or  twice  given  him  a  glimpse ;  and 
he  believed  that  her  deepest  feeling  was  ever  for  Norman. 

When  he  reached  Mrs.  Wentworth's  house  he  was  fortu 
nate  enough  to  find  her  at  home.  He  was  shown  into  the 
drawing-room. 

When  Mrs.  Wentworth  entered  the  room,  Keith  was 
conscious  of  a  change  in  her  since  he  had  seen  her  last. 
She,  too,  had  heard  the  clangor  of  the  evil  tongues  that  had 
connected  their  names.  She  greeted  him  with  cordial 
words,  but  her  manner  was  constrained,  and  her  expression 
was  almost  suspicious. 

She  changed,  however,  under  Keith's  imperturbable  and 
unfeigned  friendliness,  and  suddenly  asked  him  if  he  had 
seen  Norman.  For  the  first  time  real  interest  spoke  in 
her  voice  and  shone  in  her  face.  Keith  said  he  had  seen 
him. 

"I  have  come  to  see  if  I  could  not  help  you.  Perhaps, 
I  may  be  able  to  do  something  to  set  things  right." 

"  No— it  is  too  late.  Things  have  gone  too  far.  We  have 
just  drifted— drifted— !"  She  flung  up  her  hands  and 
tossed  them  apart  with  a  gesture  of  despair.  "Drifted !" 
she  repeated.  She  put  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes. 

485 


GOKDON   KEITH 

Keith  watched  her  in  silence  for  a  moment,  and  then 
rising,  he  seated  himself  beside  her. 

"Come— this  is  all  wrong— all  wrong  ! "  He  caught  her 
by  the  wrist  and  firmly  took  her  hand  down  from  her  eyes, 
much  as  an  older  brother  might  have  done.  "I  want  to 
talk  to  you.  Perhaps,  I  can  help  you— I  may  have  been 
sent  here  for  the  purpose— who  knows  ?  At  least,  I  want  to 
help  you.  Now  tell  me."  He  looked  into  her  face  with 
grave,  kind  eyes.  "You  do  not  care  for  Ferdy  Wicker- 
sham  j  That  would  be  impossible." 

"No,  of  course  not,— except  as  a  friend,— and  Norman 
liked  another  woman— your  friend  ! "  Her  eyes  flashed 
a  sudden  flame. 

"Never  !  never  ! "  repeated  Keith,  after  a  pause.  "Nor 
man  is  not  that  sort." 

His  absolute  certainty  daunted  her. 

"He  did.  I  have  reason  to  think—"  she  began.  But 
Keith  put  her  down. 

"Never  !     I  would  stake  my  salvation  on  it." 

"He  is  going  to  get  a— try  to  get  a  divorce.  He  is  will 
ing  to  blacken  my  name." 

"What !     Never." 

"But  you  do  not  know  the  reasons  I  have  for  saying  so," 
she  protested.  "If  I  could  tell  you—" 

"No,  and  I  do  not  care.  Doubt  your  own  senses  rather 
than  believe  that.  Ferdy  Wickersham  is  your  authority 
for  that." 

"No,  he  is  not— not  my  only  authority.  You  are  all  so 
hard  on  Ferdy.  He  is  a  good  friend  of  mine." 

"He  is  not,"  asserted  Keith.  "He  is  your  worst  enemy 
—your  very  worst.  He  is  incapable  of  being  a  friend." 

"What  have  you  against  him  ?  "  she  demanded.  "I  know 
you  and  he  don't  like  each  other,  but—" 

"Well,  for  one  thing,  he  deceived  a  poor  girl,  and  then 
abandoned  her— and— " 

"Perhaps,  your  information  is  incorrect?  You  know 
how  easy  it  is  to  get  up  a  slander,  and  such  women  are  — 

486 


THE    RUN   ON   THE    BANK 

not  to  be  believed.     They  always  pretend  that  they  have 
been  deceived." 

"She  was  not  one  of  'such  women/  "  said  Keith,  calmly. 
"She  was  a  perfectly  respectable  woman,  and  the  grand 
daughter  of  an  old  friend  of  mine." 

"Well,  perhaps,  you  may  have  been  misinformed?" 

"No  5 1  have  the  evidence  that  Wickersham  married  her 
-and-" 

"  Oh,  come  now —that  is  absurd  !  Ferdy  married !  Why, 
Ferdy  never  cared  enough  for  any  one  to  marry  her — unless 
she  had  money.  He  has  paid  attention  to  a  rich  woman, 
but—  You  must  not  strain  my  credulity  too  far.  I  really 
thought  you  had  something  to  show  against  him.  Of  course, 
I  know  he  is  not  a  saint,— in  fact,  very  far  from  it,— but  he 
does  not  pretend  to  be.  But,  at  least,  he  is  not  a  hypo 
crite." 

"He  is  a  hypocrite  and  a  scoundrel,"  declared  Keith, 
firmly.  "He  is  married,  and  his  wife  is  living  now.  He 
abandoned  her,  and  she  is  insane.  I  know  her." 

"You  know  her  !  Ferdy  married  ! "  She  paused  in 
wonder.  His  certainty  carried  conviction  with  it. 

"I  have  his  marriage  certificate." 

"You  have!  "     A  sort  of  amaze  passed  over  her  face. 

He  took  out  the  paper  and  gave  it  to  her.  She  gazed  at 
it  with  staring  eyes.  "That  is  his  hand."  She  rose  with  a 
blank  face,  and  walked  to  the  window ;  then,  after  a  mo 
ment,  came  back  and  sat  down.  She  had  the  expression  of 
a  person  lost.  "Tell  me  about  it." 

Keith  told  her.     He  also  told  her  of  Norman's  losses. 

Again  that  look  of  amazement  crossed  her  face  ;  her  eyes 
became  almost  blank. 

"Norman's  fortune  impaired  !  I  cannot  understand  it— 
he  told  me—  Oh,  there  must  be  some  mistake  ! "  she  broke 
out  vehemently.  "You  are  deceiving  me.  No  !  I  don't 
mean  that,  of  course,— I  know  you  would  not,— but  you 
have  been  deceived  yourself."  Her  face  was  a  sudden 
white. 

487 


GORDON    KEITH 

Keith  shook  his  head.     "No  ! » 

"  Why,  look  here.  He  cannot  be  hard  up.  He  has  kept 
up  my  allowance  and  met  every  demand— almost  every 
demand — I  have  made  on  him."  She  was  grasping  at 
straws. 

"And  Ferdy  Wickersham  has  spent  it  in  Wall  Street." 

"What !  No,  he  has  not !  There,  at  least,  you  do  him 
an  injustice.  What  he  has  got  from  me  he  has  invested 
securely.  I  have  all  the  papers— at  least,  some  of  them." 

"How  has  he  invested  it?" 

"Partly  in  a  mine  called  the  i  Great  Gun  Mine,'  in  New 
Leeds.  Partly  in  Colorado.— I  can  help  Norman  with  it." 
Her  face  brightened  as  the  thought  came  to  her. 

Keith  shook  his  head. 

"The  Great  Gun  Mine  is  a  fraud— at  least,  it  is  worthless, 
not  worth  five  cents  on  the  dollar  of  what  has  been  put  in  it. 
It  was  flooded  years  ago.  Wickersham  has  used  it  as  a 
mask  for  his  gambling  operations  in  Wall  Street,  but  has 
not  put  a  dollar  into  it  for  years ;  and  now  he  does  not 
even  own  it.  His  creditors  have  it." 

Her  face  had  turned  perfectly  white. 

A  look,  partly  of  pity  for  her,  partly  of  scorn  for  Wick 
ersham,  crossed  Keith's  face.  He  rose  and  strode  up  and 
down  the  room  in  perplexity. 

"He  is  a  common  thief,"  he  said  sternly— "beneath  con 
tempt  ! " 

His  conviction  suddenly  extended  to  her.  When  he 
looked  at  her,  she  showed  in  her  face  that  she  believed  him. 
Her  last  prop  had  fallen.  The  calamity  had  made  her  quiet. 

"What  shall  I  do?"  she  asked  hopelessly. 

"You  must  tell  Norman." 

"Oh!" 

"Make  a  clean  breast  of  it." 

"You  do  not  know  Norman!  How  can  I?  He  would 
despise  me  so  !  You  do  not  know  how  proud  he  is.  He—  ! " 
Words  failed  her,  and  she  stared  at  Keith  helplessly. 

"If  I  do  not  know  Norman,  I  know  no  one  on  earth. 

488 


THE   KUN   ON   THE   BANK 

Go  to  him  and  tell  him  everything.  It  will  be  the  happiest 
day  of  his  life— your  salvation  and  his." 

"You  think  so?" 

"I  know  it." 

She  relapsed  into  thought,  and  Keith  waited. 

"I  was  to  see  Fer— Mr.  Wickersham  to-night,"  she  began 
presently.  "He  asked  me  to  supper  to  meet  some  friends— 
the  Count  and  Countess  Torelli." 

Keith  smiled.     A  fine  scorn  came  into  his  eyes. 

"Where  does  he  give  the  dinner?     At  what  hour? " 

She  named  the  place— a  fashionable  restaurant  up-town. 
The  time  was  still  several  hours  away. 

"You  must  go  to  Norman." 

She  sat  in  deep  reflection. 

"It  is  your  only  chance— your  only  hope.  Give  me 
authority  to  act  for  you,  and  go  to  him.  He  needs  you." 

"If  I  thought  he  would  forgive  me?"  she  said  in  a  low 
tone. 

"He  will.  I  have  just  come  from  him.  "Write  me  the 
authority  and  go  at  once." 

A  light  appeared  to  dawn  in  her  face. 

She  rose  suddenly. 

"What  shall  I  write?" 

"Write  simply  that  I  have  full  authority  to  act  for  you— 
and  that  you  have  gone  to  Norman." 

She  walked  into  the  next  room,  and  seating  herself  at  an 
escritoire,  she  wrote  for  a  short  time.  When  she  handed 
the  paper  to  Keith  it  contained  just  what  he  had  requested  : 
a  simple  statement  to  F.  C.  Wickersham  that  Mr.  Keith  had 
full  authority  to  represent  her  and  act  for  her  as  he  deemed 
best. 

"Will  that  do?"  she  asked. 

"I  think  so,"  said  Keith.    "Now  go.    Norman  is  waiting." 


489 


CHAPTEE   XXXIII 
RECONCILIATION 

~|7OB,  some  time  after  Keith  left  her  Mrs.  Wentworth  sat 
JJ  absolutely  motionless,  her  eyes  half  closed,  her  lips 
drawn  tight,  in  deep  reflection.  Presently  she  changed 
her  seat  and  ensconced  herself  in  the  corner  of  a  divan, 
leaning  her  head  on  her  hand  ;  but  her  expression  did  not 
change.  Her  mind  was  evidently  working  in  the  same 
channel.  A  tumult  raged  within  her  breast,  but  her  face 
was  set  sphinx-like,  inscrutable.  Just  then  there  was  a 
scurry  up-stairs  $  a  boy's  voice  was  heard  shouting  : 

"See  here,  what  papa  sent  us." 

There  was  an  answering  shout,  and  then  an  uproar  of 
childish  delight.  A  sudden  change  swept  over  her.  Light 
appeared  to  break  upon  her.  Something  like  courage  came 
into  her  face,  not  unmingled  with  tenderness,  softening  it 
and  dispelling  the  gloom  which  had  clouded  it.  She  rose 
suddenly  and  walked  with  a  swift,  decisive  step  out  of  the 
room  and  up  the  richly  carpeted  stairs.  To  a  maid  on  the 
upper  floor  she  said  hurriedly :  "Tell  Fenderson  to  order 
the  brougham— at  once,"  and  passed  into  her  chamber. 

Closing  the  door,  she  locked  it.  She  opened  a  safe  built 
in  the  wall ;  a  package  of  letters  fell  out  into  the  room.  A 
spasm  almost  of  loathing  crossed  her  face.  She  picked  up 
the  letters  and  began  to  tear  them  up  with  almost  violence, 
throwing  the  fragments  into  the  grate  as  though  they 
soiled  her  hands.  Going  back  to  the  safe,  she  took  out  box 
after  box  of  jewelry,  opening  them  to  glance  in  and  see 

490 


RECONCILIATION 

that  the  jewels  were  there.  Yes,  they  were  there  :  a  pearl 
necklace  ;  bracelets  which  had  been  the  wonder  of  her  set, 
and  which  her  pretended  friend  and  admirer  had  once  said 
were  worth  as  much  as  her  home.  She  put  them  all  into 
a  bag,  together  with  several  large  envelopes  containing 
papers. 

Then  she  went  to  a  dress-closet,  and  began  to  search 
through  it,  choosing,  finally,  a  simple,  dark  street  dress,  by 
no  means  one  of  the  newest.  A  gorgeous  robe,  which  had 
been  laid  out  for  her  to  wear,  she  picked  up  and  flung  on 
the  floor  with  sudden  loathing.  It  was  the  gown  she  had 
intended  to  wear  that  night. 

A  tap  at  the  door,  and  the  maid's  mild  voice  announced 
the  carriage ;  and  a  few  minutes  later  Mrs.  Wentworth 
descended  the  stairs. 

"Tell  Mademoiselle  Clarisse  that  Mr.  Wentworth  will  be 
here  this  evening  to  see  the  children." 

"Yes,  madam."  The  maid's  quiet  voice  was  too  well 
trained  to  express  the  slightest  surprise,  but  as  soon  as  the 
outer  door  had  closed  on  her  mistress,  and  she  had  heard 
the  carriage  drive  away,  she  rushed  down  to  the  lower  storey 
to  convey  the  astounding  intelligence,  and  to  gossip  over  it 
for  half  an  hour  before  she  deemed  it  necessary  to  give  the 
message  to  the  governess  who  had  succeeded  Lois  when  the 
latter  went  home. 

It  was  just  eight  o'clock  that  evening  when  the  carriage 
drove  up  to  the  door  of  Norman  Wentworth's  bank,  and  a 
lady  enveloped  in  a  long  wrap,  her  dark  veil  pulled  down 
over  her  face,  sprang  out  and  ran  up  the  steps.  The  crowd 
had  long  ago  dispersed,  though  now  and  then  a  few  timid 
depositors  still  made  their  way  into  the  bank,  to  be  on  the 
safe  side. 

The  intervention  of  the  banks  and  the  loans  they  had 
made  that  afternoon  had  stayed  the  run  and  saved  the 
bank  from  closing ;  but  Norman  Wentworth  knew  that  if 
he  was  not  ruined,  his  bank  had  received  a  shock  from 
which  it  would  not  recover  in  a  long  time,  and  his  fortune 

491 


GORDON   KEITH 

was  crippled,  he  feared,  almost  beyond  repair.  The  tired 
clerks  looked  up  as  the  lady  entered  the  bank,  and,  with 
glances  at  the  clock,  muttered  a  few  words  to  each  other 
about  her  right  to  draw  money  after  the  closing-hour 
had  passed.  When,  however,  she  walked  past  their 
windows  and  went  straight  to  Mr.  Wentworth's  door,  their 
interest  increased. 

Norman,  with  his  books  before  him,  was  sitting  back  in 
his  chair,  his  head  leaning  back  and  resting  in  his  clasped 
hands,  deep  in  thought  upon  the  gloom  of  the  present  and  the 
perplexities  of  the  future,  when  there  was  a  tap  at  the  door. 

With  some  impatience  he  called  to  the  person  to  enter. 

The  door  opened,  and  Norman  could  scarcely  believe  his 
senses.  For  a  second  he  did  not  even  sit  forward.  He  did 
not  stir ;  he  simply  remained  sitting  back  in  his  chair,  his 
face  turned  to  the  door,  his  eyes  resting  on  the  figure  before 
him  in  vague  amazement.  The  next  second,  with  a  half- 
cry,  his  wife  was  on  her  knees  beside  him,  her  arms  about 
him,  her  form  shaken  with  sobs.  He  sat  forward  slowly, 
and  his  arm  rested  on  her  shoulders. 

"There  !  don't  cry,"  he  said  slowly  ;  "it  might  be  worse." 

But  all  she  said  was  : 

"Oh,  Norman  !  Norman  ! " 

He  tried  to  raise  her,  with  grave  words  to  calm  her  ;  but 
she  resisted,  and  clung  to  him  closer. 

"It  is  not  so  bad ;  it  might  be  worse,"  he  repeated. 

She  rose  suddenly  to  her  feet  and  flung  back  her  veil. 

"Can  you  forgive  me?  I  have  come  to  beg  your  forgive 
ness  on  my  knees.  I  have  been  mad— mad.  I  was  de 
ceived.  No!  I  will  not  say  that — I  was  crazy — a  fool! 
But  I  loved  you  always,  you  only.  You  will  forgive  me? 
Say  you  will." 

"There,  there  !  Of  course  I  will— I  do.  I  have  been  to 
blame  quite  as  much— more  than  you.  I  was  a  fool." 

"Oh,  no,  no  !  You  shall  not  say  that ;  but  you  will  be 
lieve  that  I  loved  you— you  only— always !  You  will 
believe  this?  I  was  mad." 

492 


RECONCILIATION 

He  raised  her  up  gently,  and  with  earnest  words  reas 
sured  her,  blaming  himself  for  his  harshness  and  folly. 

She  suddenly  opened  her  bag  and  emptied  the  contents 
out  on  his  desk. 

"  There  !    I  have  brought  you  these." 

Her  husband  gazed  in  silent  astonishment. 

"I  don't  understand." 

"They  are  for  you,"  she  said  —  "  for  us.  To  pay  our 
debts.  To  help  you."  She  pulled  off  her  glove  and  began 
to  take  off  her  diamond  rings. 

"They  will  not  go  a  great  way,"  said  Norman,  with  a 
smile  of  indulgence. 

"Well,  as  far  as  they  will  go  they  shall  go.  Do  you 
think  I  will  keep  anything  I  have  when  you  are  in  trouble 
—when  your  good  name  is  at  stake?  The  house— every 
thing  shall  go.  It  is  all  my  fault.  I  have  been  a  wicked, 
silly  fool ;  but  I  did  not  know— I  ought  to  have  known ; 
but  I  did  not.  I  do  not  see  how  I  could  have  been  so  blind 
and  selfish." 

"Oh,  don't  blame  yourself.  I  have  not  blamed  you,"  said 
Norman,  soothingly.  "Of  course,  you  did  not  know.  How 
could  you  ?  Women  are  not  expected  to  know  about  those 
things." 

"Yes,  they  are,"  insisted  Mrs.  Wentworth.  "If  I  had 
not  been  such  a  fool  I  might  have  seen.  It  is  all  plain  to 
me  now.  Your  harassment— my  folly— it  came  to  me  like 
a  stroke  of  lightning." 

Norman's  eyes  were  on  her  with  a  strange  inquiring  look 
in  them. 

"How  did  you  hear?"  he  asked. 

"Mr.  Keith— he  came  to  me  and  told  me." 

"I  wish  he  had  not  done  it.  I  mean,  I  did  not  want 
you  troubled.  You  were  not  to  blame.  You  were  de 
ceived." 

"Oh,  don't  say  that !  I  shall  never  cease  to  thank  him. 
He  tore  the  veil  away,  and  I  saw  what  a  heartless,  vain, 
silly  fool  I  have  been."  Norman  put  his  hand  on  her  sooth- 

493 


GORDON   KEITH 

ingly.  "But  I  have  never  forgotten  that  I  was  your  wife, 
nor  ceased  to  love  you,"  she  went  on  vehemently. 

"I  believe  it." 

"I  have  come  to  confess  everything  to  you— all  my  folly 
—all  my  extravagance— my  insane  folly.  But  what  I  said 
just  now  is  true  :  I  have  never  forgotten  that  I  was  your 
wife." 

Norman,  with  his  arm  supporting  her,  reassured  her  with 
comforting  words,  and,  sustained  by  his  confidence,  she  told 
him  of  her  folly  in  trusting  Ferdy  Wickersham :  of  her 
giving  him  her  money— of  everything. 

"Can  you  forgive  me?"  she  asked  after  her  shamefaced 
recital. 

"I  will  never  think  of  that  again,"  said  Norman,  "and 
if  I  do,  it  will  be  with  gratitude  that  they  have  played 
their  part  in  doing  away  with  the  one  great  sorrow  of  my 
life  and  bringing  back  the  happiness  of  my  youth,  the  one 
great  blessing  that  life  holds  for  me." 

"I  have  come  to  take  you  home,"  she  said ;  "  to  ask  you 
to  come  back,  if  you  will  but  forgive  me."  She  spoke 
humbly. 

Norman's  face  gave  answer  even  before  he  could  master 
himself  to  speak.  He  stretched  out  his  hand,  and  drew  her 
to  him.  "I  am  at  home  now.  Wherever  you  are  is  my 
home." 

When  Norman  came  out  of  his  private  office,  there  was 
such  a  change  in  him  that  the  clerks  who  had  remained  at 
the  bank  thought  that  he  must  have  received  some  great 
aid  from  the  lady  who  had  been  closeted  with  him  so  long. 
He  had  a  few  brief  words  with  the  cashier,  explaining  that 
he  would  be  back  at  the  bank  before  eight  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  and  saying  good  night,  hurried  to  the  door  after 
Mrs.  Wentworth.  Handing  her  into  the  carriage,  he  or 
dered  the  coachman  to  drive  home,  and,  springing  in  after 
her,  he  closed  the  door  behind  him,  and  they  drove  off. 

Keith,  meantime,  had  not  been  idle.  After  leaving  Mrs. 
Wentworth,  he  drove  straight  to  a  detective  agency.  For- 

494 


RECONCILIATION 

tunately  the  chief  was  in,  and  Keith  was  ushered  into  his 
private  office  immediately.  He  was  a  quiet-looking,  stout 
man,  with  a  gray  moustache  and  keen  dark  eyes.  He  might 
have  been  a  moderately  successful  merchant  or  official,  but 
for  the  calmness  of  his  manner  and  the  low  tones  of  his 
voice.  Keith  came  immediately  to  the  point. 

"I  have  a  piece  of  important  work  on  hand  this  evening," 
he  said,  "  of  a  private  and  delicate  nature."  The  detective's 
look  was  acquiescent.  "Could  I  get  Dennison?" 

"I  think  so." 

Keith  stated  his  case.  At  the  mention  of  Wickersham's 
name  a  slight  change— the  very  slightest— flickered  across 
the  detective's  calm  face.  Keith  could  not  tell  whether  it 
was  mere  surprise  or  whether  it  was  gratification. 

"Now  you  see  precisely  what  I  wish,"  he  said,  as  he  fin 
ished  stating  the  case  and  unfolding  his  plan.  "It  may 
not  be  necessary  for  him  even  to  appear,  but  I  wish  him 
to  be  on  hand  in  case  I  should  need  his  service.  If  Wicker- 
sham  does  not  accede  to  my  demand,  I  shall  arrest  him  for 
the  fraud  I  have  mentioned.  If  he  does  accede,  I  wish 
Dennison  to  accompany  him  to  the  boat  of  the  South  Ameri 
can  Line  that  sails  to-morrow  morning,  and  not  leave  him 
until  the  pilot  comes  off.  I  do  not  apprehend  that  he  will 
refuse  when  he  knows  the  hand  that  I  hold." 

"No,  he  will  not.  He  knows  what  would  happen  if  pro 
ceedings  were  started,"  said  the  detective.  "Excuse  me  a 
moment."  He  walked  out  of  the  office,  closing  the  door 
behind  him,  and  a  few  minutes  later  returned  with  David 
Dennison. 

"Mr.  Keith,  this  is  Mr.  John  Dimm.  I  have  explained 
to  him  the  nature  of  the  service  you  require  of  him."  He 
looked  at  Mr.  Dimm,  who  simply  nodded  his  acquiescence. 
"  You  will  take  your  orders  from  Mr.  Keith,  should  any 
thing  arise  to  change  his  plans,  and  act  accordingly." 

"I  know  him,"  said  Keith,  amused  at  the  cool  professional 
air  with  which  his  old  friend  greeted  him  in  the  presence 
of  his  principal. 

495 


GORDON  KEITH 

Dave  simply  blinked  ;  but  his  eyes  had  a  fire  in  them. 

It  was  arranged  that  Dennison  should  precede  Keith  to 
the  place  he  had  mentioned  and  order  a  supper  there,  while 
Keith  should  get  the  ticket  at  the  steamship  office  and  then 
follow  him.  So  when  Keith  had  completed  his  arrange 
ments,  he  found  Dennison  at  supper  at  a  table  near  the 
ladies'  entrance,  a  view  of  which  he  commanded  in  a  mirror 
just  before  him.  Mr.  Dimm's  manner  had  entirely  changed. 
He  was  a  man  of  the  world  and  a  host  as  he  handed  Keith 
to  his  seat. 

"A  supper  for  two  has  been  ordered  in  private  dining- 
room  21,  for  9 : 45,"  he  said  in  an  undertone  as  the  waiter 
moved  off.  "They  do  not  know  whether  it  is  for  a  gentle 
man  and  a  lady,  or  two  gentlemen  ;  but  I  suppose  it  is  for  a 
lady,  as  he  has  been  here  a  number  of  times  with  ladies. 
If  you  are  sure  that  the  lady  will  not  come,  you  might  wait 
for  him  there.  I  will  remain  here  until  he  comes,  and  fol 
low  him  up,  in  case  you  need  me." 

Keith  feared  that  the  waiter  might  mention  his  presence. 

"Oh,  no ;  he  knows  us,"  said  Dave,  with  a  faint  smile  at 
the  bare  suggestion. 

Mr.  Dimm  called  the  head- waiter  and  spoke  to  him  in 
an  undertone.  The  waiter  himself  showed  Keith  up  to  the 
room,  where  he  found  a  table  daintily  set  with  two  covers. 

The  champagne-cooler,  filled  with  ice,  was  already  on  the 
floor  beside  the  table.  Keith  looked  at  it  grimly.  The 
curtains  of  the  window  were  down,  and  Keith  walked  over 
to  see  on  what  street  the  window  looked.  It  was  a  deep 
embrasure.  The  shade  was  drawn  down,  and  he  raised 
it,  to  find  that  the  window  faced  on  a  dead- wall.  At  the 
moment  the  door  opened  and  he  heard  Wickersham's  voice. 

"No  one  has  come  yet?" 

"No,  sir,  not  as  I  knows  of,"  stammered  the  waiter.  "I 
have  just  come  on." 

"Where  is  Jacques,  the  man  who  usually  waits  on  me?" 
demanded  Wickersham,  half  angrily. 

"Jacques  est  souffrant.     II  est  tres  malade." 

496 


RECONCILIATION 

Wickersham  grunted.  "Well,  take  this,"  he  said,  "and 
remember  that  if  you  serve  me  properly  there  will  be  a 
good  deal  more  to  follow." 

The  waiter  thanked  him  profusely. 

"Now,  get  down  and  be  on  the  lookout,  and  when  a 
lady  comes  and  asks  for  21,  show  her  up  immediately.  If 
she  asks  who  is  here,  tell  her  two  gentlemen  and  a  lady. 
You  understand  f  " 

The  waiter  bowed  his  assent  and  retired.  Wickersham 
came  in  and  closed  the  door  behind  him. 

He  had  just  thrown  his  coat  on  a  chair,  laid  his  hat  on 
the  mantelpiece,  and  was  twirling  his  moustache  at  the 
mirror  above  it,  when  he  caught  sight  in  the  mirror  of 
Keith.  Keith  had  stepped  out  behind  him  from  the  recess, 
and  was  standing  by  the  table,  quietly  looking  at  him. 
He  gave  an  exclamation  and  turned  quickly. 

"Hah  !  What  is  this?  You  here  !  What  are  you  doing 
here  ?  There  is  some  mistake."  He  glanced  at  the  door. 

"No,  there  is  no  mistake,"  said  Keith,  advancing  j  "I  am 
waiting  for  you." 

"For  me  !     Waiting  for  me? "  he  demanded,  mystified. 

"Yes.  Did  you  not  tell  the  waiter  just  now  a  gentleman 
was  here  ?  I  confess  you  do  not  seem  very  pleased  to  see  me." 

"You  have  read  my  looks  correctly,"  said  Wickersham, 
who  was  beginning  to  recover  himself,  and  with  it  his 
scornful  manner.  "You  are  the  last  person  on  earth  I  wish 
to  see— ever.  I  do  not  know  that  I  should  weep  if  I  never 
had  that  pleasure  again." 

Keith  bowed. 

"I  think  it  probable.  You  may,  hereafter,  have  even 
less  cause  for  joy  at  meeting  me." 

"Impossible,"  said  Wickersham. 

Keith  put  his  hand  on  a  chair,  and  prepared  to  sit  down, 
motioning  Wickersham  to  take  the  other  seat. 

"The  lady  you  are  waiting  for  will  not  be  here  this 
evening,"  he  said,  "and  it  may  be  that  our  interview  will 
be  protracted." 

497 


GORDON   KEITH 

Wickersham  passed  by  the  last  words. 

"What  lady?    Who  says  I  am  waiting  for  a  lady?" 

"You  said  so  at  the  door  just  now.     Besides,  I  say  so." 

"Oh  !     You  were  listening,  were  you?"  he  sneered. 

"Yes  ;  I  heard  it," 

"How  do  you  know  she  will  not  be  here?  What  do  you 
know  about  it  ?  " 

"I  know  that  she  will  no  more  be  here  than  the  Countess 
Torelli  will,"  said  Keith.  He  was  looking  Wickersham 
full  in  the  face  and  saw  that  the  shot  went  home. 

"What  do  you  want?"  demanded  Wickersham.  "Why 
are  you  here?  Are  you  after  money  or  a  row? " 

"I  want  you— I  want  you,  first,  to  secure  all  of  Mrs.  Went- 
worth's  money  that  you  have  had,  or  as  much  as  you  can." 

Wickersham  was  so  taken  aback  that  his  dark  face 
turned  almost  white,  but  he  recovered  himself  quickly. 

"You  are  a  madman,  or  some  one  has  been  deceiving 
you.  You  are  the  victim  of  a  delusion." 

Keith,  with  his  eyes  fastened  on  him,  shook  his  head. 

"Oh,  no  ;  I  am  not." 

A  look  of  perplexed  innocence  came  over  Wickersham's 
face. 

"Yes,  you  are,"  he  said,  in  an  almost  friendly  tone. 
"You  are  the  victim  of  some  hallucination.  I  give  you  my 
word,  I  do  not  know  even  what  you  are  talking  about.  I 
should  say  you  were  engaged  in  blackmail—"  The  expres 
sion  in  his  eyes  changed  like  a  flash,  but  something  in 
Keith's  eyes,  as  they  met  his,  caused  him  to  add,  "if  I  did 
not  know  that  you  were  a  man  of  character.  I,  too,  am  a 
man  of  character,  Mr.  Keith.  I  want  you  to  know  it." 
Keith's  eyes  remained  calm  and  cold  as  steel.  Wickersham 
faltered.  "I  am  a  man  of  means— of  large  means.  I 
am  worth—.  My  balance  in  bank  this  moment  is— is 
more  than  you  will  ever  be  worth.  Now  I  want  to  ask 
you  why,  in  the  name  of  Heaven,  should  I  want  any 
thing  to  do  with  Mrs.  Wentworth's  money  ?  " 

"If  you  have  such  a  balance  in  bank,"  said  Keith,  "it 

498 


RECONCILIATION 

will  simplify  my  mission,  for  you  will  doubtless  be  glad  to 
return  Mr.  Wentworth's  money  that  you  have  had  from 
Mrs.  Wentworth.  I  happen  to  know  that  his  money  will 
come  in  very  conveniently  for  Norman  just  now." 

"Oh,  you  come  from  Wentworth,  do  you?"  demanded 
"Wickersham. 

"No  j  from  Mrs.  Wentworth,"  returned  Keith. 

"Did  she  send  you  ? "  Wickersham  shot  at  Keith  a  level 
glance  from  under  his  half-closed  lids. 

"I  offered  to  come.     She  knows  I  am  here." 

"What  proof  have  I  of  that?  " 

"My  statement." 

"And  suppose  I  do  not  please  to  accept  your  statement?  " 

Keith  leant  a  little  toward  him  over  the  table. 

"You  will  accept  it." 

"He  must  hold  a  strong  hand,"  thought  Wickersham. 
He  shifted  his  ground  suddenly.  "What,  in  the  name 
of  Heaven,  are  you  driving  at,  Keith?  What  are  you 
after?  Come  to  the  point." 

"I  will,"  said  Keith,  rising.  "Let  us  drop  our  masks ; 
they  are  not  becoming  to  you,  and  I  am  not  accustomed  to 
them.  I  have  come  for  several  things  :  one  of  them  is  Mrs. 
Wentworth's  money,  which  you  got  from  her  under  false 
pretences."  He  spoke  slowly,  and  his  eyes  were  looking  in 
the  other's  eyes. 

Wickersham  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"What  do  you  mean,  sir?"  he  demanded,  with  an  oath. 
"I  have  already  told  you—  !  I  will  let  no  man  speak  to  me 
in  that  way." 

Keith  did  not  stir.  Wickersham  paused  to  get  his 
breath. 

"You  would  not  dare  to  speak  so  if  a  lady's  name  were 
not  involved,  and  you  did  not  know  that  I  cannot  act  as  I 
would,  for  fear  of  compromising  her." 

An  expression  of  contempt  swept  across  Keith's  face. 

"Sit  down,"  he  said.  "I  will  relieve  your  mind.  Mrs. 
Wentworth  is  quite  ready  to  meet  any  disclosures  that  may 

499 


GORDON   KEITH 

come.     I  have  her  power  of  attorney.     She  has  gone  to 
her  husband  and  told  him  everything." 

Wickersham's  face  whitened,  and  he  could  not  repress  the 
look  of  mingled  astonishment  and  fear  that  stole  into  his  eyes. 

"Now,  having  given  you  that  information,"  continued 
Keith,  "I  say  that  you  stole  Mrs.  Wentworth's  money,  and 
I  have  come  to  recover  it,  if  possible." 

Wickersham  rose  to  his  feet.  With  a  furious  oath  he 
sprang  for  his  overcoat,  and,  snatching  it  up,  began  to  feel 
for  the  pocket. 

"I'll  blow  your  brains  out." 

"No,  you  will  not,"  said  Keith,  "and  I  advise  you  to 
make  less  noise.  An  officer  is  outside,  and  I  have  but  to 
whistle  to  place  you  where  nothing  will  help  you.  A  war 
rant  is  out  for  your  arrest,  and  I  have  the  proof  to  convict 
you." 

Wickersham,  with  his  coat  still  held  in  one  hand,  and 
the  other  in  the  pocket,  shot  a  glance  at  Keith.  He  was 
daunted  by  his  coolness. 

"You  must  think  you  hold  a  strong  hand,"  he  said.  "But 
I  have  known  them  to  fail." 

Keith  bowed. 

"No  doubt.  This  one  will  not  fail.  I  have  taken  pains 
that  it  shall  not,  and  I  have  other  cards  which  I  have  not 
shown  you.  Sit  down  and  listen  to  me,  and  you  shall  judge 
for  yourself." 

With  a  muttered  oath,  Wickersham  walked  back  to  his 
seat ;  but  before  he  did  so,  he  slipped  quietly  into  his  pocket 
a  pistol  which  he  took  from  his  overcoat. 

Quickly  as  the  act  was  done,  Keith  saw  it. 

"Don't  you  think  you  had  better  put  your  pistol  back  f  " 
he  said  quietly.  "An  officer  is  waiting  just  outside  that 
door,  a  man  that  can  neither  be  bullied  nor  bought.  Per 
haps,  you  will  agree  with  me  when  I  tell  you  that,  though 
called  Dimm,  his  real  name  is  David  Dennison.  He  has 
orders  at  the  least  disturbance  to  place  you  under  arrest. 
Judge  for  yourself  what  chance  you  will  have." 

500 


RECONCILIATION 

"What  do  you  wish  me  to  do?"  asked  Wickersham, 
sullenly. 

"I  wish  you,  first,  to  execute  some  papers  which  will  se 
cure  to  Norman  Wentworth,  as  far  as  can  possibly  be  done, 
the  amount  of  money  that  you  have  gotten  from  Mrs.  Went- 
worth  under  the  pretence  of  investing  it  for  her  in  mines. 
Mrs.  Wentworth's  name  will  not  be  mentioned  in  this  in 
strument.  The  money  was  her  husband's,  and  you  knew 
it,  and  you  knew  it  was  impairing  his  estate  to  furnish  it. 
Secondly,  I  require  that  you  shall  leave  the  country  to 
morrow  morning.  I  have  arranged  for  passage  for  you, 
on  a  steamer  sailing  before  sunrise." 

" Thank  you,"  sneered  Wickersham.  "Really,  you  are 
very  kind." 

"Thirdly,  you  will  sign  a  paper  which  contains  only  a 
few  of  the  facts,  but  enough,  perhaps,  to  prevent  your  re 
turning  to  this  country  for  some  years  to  come." 

Wickersham  leant  across  the  table  and  burst  out  laugh 
ing. 

"And  you  really  think  I  will  do  that?  How  old  do  you 
think  I  am?  Why  did  you  not  bring  me  a  milk-bottle  and 
a  rattle?  You  do  my  intellect  a  great  deal  of  honor." 

For  answer  Keith  tapped  twice  on  a  glass  with  the  back 
of  a  knife.  The  next  second  the  door  opened,  and  Dave 
Dennison  entered,  impassive,  but  calmly  observant,  and 
with  a  face  set  like  rock. 

At  sight  of  him  Wickersham's  face  whitened. 

"One  moment,  Dave,"  said  Keith ;  "wait  outside  a  mo 
ment  more." 

Dennison  bowed  and  closed  the  door.  The  latch  clicked, 
but  the  knob  did  not  settle  back. 

"I  will  give  you  one  minute  in  which  to  decide,"  said 
Keith.  He  drew  from  his  pocket  and  threw  on  the  table 
two  papers.  "There  are  the  papers."  He  took  out  his 
watch  and  waited. 

Wickersham  picked  up  the  papers  mechanically  and 
glanced  over  them.  His  face  settled.  Gambler  that  he 

501 


GORDON   KEITH 

was  with  the  fortunes  of  men  and  the  reputations  of  women, 
he  knew  that  he  had  lost.  He  tried  one  more  card— it  was 
a  poor  one. 

"Why  are  you  so  hard  on  me?"  he  asked,  with  some 
thing  like  a  whine— a  faint  whine— in  his  voice.  "You, 
who  I  used  to  think — whom  I  have  known  from  boyhood, 
you  have  always  been  so  hard  on  me  !  What  did  I  ever  do 
to  you  that  you  should  have  hounded  me  so?  " 

Keith's  face  showed  that  the  charge  had  reached  him, 
but  it  failed  of  the  effect  that  Wickersham  had  hoped  for. 
His  lip  curled  slightly. 

"I  am  not  hard  on  you ;  I  am  easy  on  you— but  not  for 
your  sake,"  he  added  vehemently.  "You  have  betrayed 
every  trust  reposed  in  you.  You  have  deceived  men  and 
betrayed  women.  No  vow  has  been  sacred  enough  to  re 
strain  you  ;  no  tie  strong  enough  to  hold  you.  Affection, 
friendship,  faith,  have  all  been  trampled  under  your  feet. 
You  have  deliberately  attempted  to  destroy  the  happiness 
of  one  of  the  best  friends  you  have  ever  had  ;  have  betrayed 
his  trust  and  tried  to  ruin  his  life.  If  I  served  you  right 
I  would  place  you  beyond  the  power  to  injure  any  one, 
forever.  The  reason  I  do  not  is  not  on  your  account,  but 
because  I  played  with  you  when  we  were  boys,  and  because 
I  do  not  know  how  far  my  personal  feeling  might  influence 
me  in  carrying  out  what  I  still  recognize  as  mere  justice." 
He  closed  his  watch.  "Your  time  is  up.  Do  you  agree? " 

"I  will  sign  the  papers,"  said  Wickersham,  sullenly. 

Keith  drew  out  a  pen  and  handed  it  to  him.  Wicker 
sham  signed  the  papers  slowly  and  deliberately. 

"When  did  you  take  to  writing  backhand?"  asked 
Keith. 

"I  have  done  it  for  several  years,"  declared  Wickersham. 
"I  had  writer's  cramp  once." 

The  expression  on  Keith's  face  was  very  like  a  sneer,  but 
he  tried  to  suppress  it. 

"It  will  do,"  he  said,  as  he  folded  the  papers  and  took 
another  envelope  from  his  pocket.  "This  is  your  ticket 

502 


RECONCILIATION 

for  the  steamer  for  Buenos  Ayres,  which  sails  to-morrow 
morning  at  high  tide.  Dennison  will  go  with  you  to  a  notary 
to  acknowledge  these  papers,  and  then  will  show  you  aboard 
of  her  and  will  see  that  you  remain  aboard  until  the  pilot 
leaves  her.  To-morrow  a  warrant  will  be  put  in  the  hands 
of  an  officer  and  an  application  will  be  made  for  a  receiver 
for  your  property." 

Wickersham  leant  back  in  his  chair,  with  hate  speaking 
from  every  line  of  his  face. 

"You  will  administer  on  my  effects?  I  suppose  you  are 
also  going  to  be  administrator,  de  bonis  non,  of  the  lady  in 
whose  behalf  you  have  exhibited  such  sudden  interest?" 

Keith's  face  paled  and  his  nostrils  dilated  for  a  moment. 
He  leant  slightly  forward  and  spoke  slowly,  his  burning  eyes 
fastened  on  Wickersham's  face. 

"Your  statement  would  be  equally  infamous  whether  it 
were  true  or  false.  You  know  that  it  is  a  lie,  and  you 
know  that  I  know  it  is  a  lie.  I  will  let  that  suffice.  I  have 
nothing  further  to  say  to  you."  He  tapped  on  the  edge 
of  the  glass  again,  and  Dennison  walked  in.  "Dennison," 
he  said,  "Mr.  Wickersham  has  agreed  to  my  plans.  He 
will  go  aboard  the  Buenos  Ay  res  boat  to-night.  You  will 
go  with  him  to  the  office  I  spoke  of,  where  he  will  acknowl 
edge  these  papers ;  then  you  will  accompany  him  to  his 
home  and  get  whatever  clothes  he  may  require,  and  you 
will  not  lose  sight  of  him  until  you  come  off  with  the 
pilot." 

Dennison  bowed  without  a  word  ;  "but  his  eyes  snapped. 

"If  he  makes  any  attempt  to  evade,  or  gives  you  any 
cause  to  think  he  is  trying  to  evade,  his  agreement,  you 
have  your  instructions." 

Dennison  bowed  again,  silently. 

"I  now  leave  you."  Keith  rose  and  inclined  his  head 
slightly  toward  Wickersham. 

As  he  turned,  Wickersham  shot  at  him  a  Parthian  arrow  : 

"I  hope  you  understand,  Mr.  Keith,  that  the  obligations 
I  have  signed  are  not  the  only  obligations  I  recognize.  I 

503 


GOKDOIST  KEITH 

owe  you  a  personal  debt,  and  I  mean  to  live  to  pay  it.  I 
shall  pay  it,  somehow.'7 

Keith  turned  and  looked  at  him  steadily. 

"I  understand  perfectly.  It  is  the  only  kind  of  debt,  as 
far  as  I  know,  that  you  recognize.  Your  statement  has 
added  nothing  to  what  I  knew.  It  matters  little  what 
you  do  to  me.  I  have,  at  least,  saved  two  friends  from  you." 

He  walked  out  of  the  room  and  closed  the  door  behind 
him. 

As  Wickersham  pulled  on  his  gloves,  he  glanced  at  Dave 
Dennison.  But  what  he  saw  in  his  face  deterred  him  from 
speaking.  His  eyes  were  like  coals  of  fire. 

"I  am  waiting,"  he  said.    "Hurry." 

Wickersham  walked  out  in  silence. 

The  following  afternoon,  when  Dave  Dennison  reported 
that  he  had  left  his  charge  on  board  the  outgoing  steamer, 
bound  for  a  far  South  American  port,  Keith  felt  as  if  the 
atmosphere  had  in  some  sort  cleared. 

A  few  days  later  Phrony  >s  worn  spirit  found  rest.  Keith, 
as  he  had  already  arranged,  telegraphed  Dr.  Balsam  of  her 
death,  and  the  Doctor  went  over  and  told  Squire  Kawson, 
at  the  same  time,  that  she  had  been  found  and  lost. 

The  next  day  Keith  and  Dave  Dennison  took  back  to 
the  South  all  that  remained  of  the  poor  creature  who  had 
left  there  a  few  years  before  in  such  high  hopes. 

One  lady,  closely  veiled,  attended  the  little  service  that 
old  Dr.  Temple  ton  conducted  in  the  chapel  of  the  hospital 
where  Phrony  had  passed  away,  before  the  body  was  taken 
South.  Alice  Lancaster  had  been  faithful  to  the  end  in 
looking  after  her. 

Phrony  was  buried  in  the  Kawson  lot  in  the  little  burying- 
ground  at  Kldgely,  not  far  from  the  spot  where  lay  the 
body  of  General  Huntington.  As  Keith  passed  this  grave 
he  saw  that  flowers  had  been  laid  on  it  recently,  but  they 
had  withered. 

All  the  Ridge- neighborhood  gathered  to  do  honor  to 

504 


RECONCILIATION 

Phrony  and  to  testify  their  sympathy  for  her  grandfather. 
It  was  an  exhibition  of  feeling  such  as  Keith  had  not 
seen  since  he  left  the  country.  The  old  man  appeared 
stronger  than  he  had  seemed  for  some  time.  He  took 
charge  and  gave  directions  in  a  clear  and  steady  voice. 

When  the  services  were  over  and  the  last  word  had  been 
said,  he  stepped  forward  and  raised  his  hand. 

"I've  got  her  back,"  he  said.  "I've  got  her  back  where 
nobody  can  take  her  from  me  again.  I  was  mighty  harsh 
on  her  ;  but  I've  done  forgive  her  long  ago— and  I  hope  she 
knows  it  now.  I  heard  once  that  the  man  that  took  her 
away  said  he  didn't  marry  her.  But—"  He  paused  for  a 
moment,  then  went  on  :  "He  was  a  liar.  I've  got  the  proof.  — 
But  I  want  you  all  to  witness  that  if  I  ever  meet  him,  in 
this  world  or  the  next,  the  Lord  do  so  to  me,  and  more 
also !  if  I  don't  kill  him ! "  He  paused  again,  and  his 
breathing  was  the  only  sound  that  was  heard  in  the  deathly 
stillness  that  had  fallen  on  the  listening  crowd. 

"  —And  if  any  man  interferes  and  balks  me  in  my  right," 
he  continued  slowly,  "I'll  have  his  blood.  Good-by.  I 
thank  you  for  her."  He  turned  back  to  the  grave  and  be 
gan  to  smooth  the  sides. 

Keith's  eyes  fell  on  Dave  Dennison,  where  he  stood  on 
the  outer  edge  of  the  crowd.  His  face  was  sphinx-like  ;  but 
his  bosom  heaved  twice,  and  Keith  knew  that  two  men 
waited  to  meet  Wickersham. 

As  the  crowd  melted  away,  whispering  among  themselves, 
Keith  crossed  over  and  laid  a  rose  on  General  Huntington's 
grave. 


505 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 
THE  CONSULTATION 

TTEITH  had  been  making  up  his  mind  for  some  time  to  go 
j\.  to  Brookford.  New  York  had  changed  utterly  for  him 
since  Lois  left.  The  whole  world  seemed  to  have  changed. 

The  day  after  he  reached  New  York,  Keith  received  a 
letter  from  Miss  Brooke.  She  wrote  that  her  niece  was 
ill  and  had  asked  her  to  write  and  request  him  to  see  Mrs. 
Lancaster,  who  would  explain  something  to  him.  She  did 
not  say  what  it  was.  She  added  that  she  wished  she  had 
never  heard  of  New  York.  It  was  a  cry  of  anguish. 

Keith's  heart  sank  like  lead.  For  the  first  time  in  his 
life  he  had  a  presentiment.  Lois  Huntington  would  die, 
and  he  would  never  see  her  again.  Despair  took  hold  of  him. 
Keith  could  stand  it  no  longer.  He  went  to  Brookford. 

The  Lawns  was  one  of  those  old-fashioned  country  places, 
a  few  miles  outside  of  the  town,  such  as  our  people  of  means 
used  to  have  a  few  generations  ago,  before  they  had  lost  the 
landholding  instinct  of  their  English  ancestors  and  gained 
the  herding  proclivity  of  modern  life.  The  extensive  yard 
and  grounds  were  filled  with  shrubbery— lilacs,  rose-bushes, 
and  evergreens— and  shaded  by  fine  old  trees,  among  which 
the  birds  were  singing  as  Keith  drove  up  the  curving  road, 
and  over  all  was  an  air  of  quietude  and  peace  which  filled 
his  heart  with  tenderness. 

"This  is  the  bower  she  came  from,"  he  thought  to  him 
self,  gazing  around.  "Here  is  the  country  garden  where 
the  rose  grew." 

506 


THE  CONSULTATION 

Miss  Brooke  was  unfeignedly  surprised  to  see  Keith. 

She  greeted  him  most  civilly.  Lois  had  long  since  ex 
plained  everything  to  her,  and  she  made  Keith  a  more 
than  ample  apology  for  her  letter.  "But  you  must  admit," 
she  said,  "that  your  actions  were  very  suspicious.— When 
a  New  York  man  is  handing  dancing-women  to  their  car 
riages  ! "  A  gesture  and  nod  completed  the  sentence. 

"But  I  am  not  a  New  York  man,'7  said  Keith. 

"Oh,  you  are  getting  to  be  a  very  fair  counterfeit,"  said 
the  old  lady,  half  grimly. 

Lois  was  very  ill.  She  had  been  under  a  great  strain  in 
New  York,  and  had  finally  broken  down. 

Among  other  items  of  interest  that  Keith  gleaned  was 
that  Dr.  Locaman,  the  resident  physician  at  Brookford,  was 
a  suitor  of  Lois.  Keith  asked  leave  to  send  for  a  friend 
who  was  a  man  of  large  experience  and  a  capital  doctor. 

"Well,  I  should  be  glad  to  have  him  sent  for.  These 
men  here  are  dividing  her  up  into  separate  pieces,  and  mean 
time  she  is  going  down  the  hill  every  day.  Send  for  any  one 
who  will  treat  her  as  a  whole  human  being  and  get  her  well." 

So  Keith  telegraphed  that  day  for  Dr.  Balsam,  saying  that 
he  wanted  him  badly,  and  would  be  under  lasting  obliga 
tions  if  he  would  come  to  Brookford  at  once. 

Brookford !  The  name  called  up  many  associations  to 
the  old  physician.  It  was  from  Brookford  that  that  young 
girl  with  her  brown  eyes  and  dark  hair  had  walked  into  his 
life  so  long  ago.  It  was  from  Brookford  that  the  decree  had 
come  that  had  doomed  him  to  a  life  of  loneliness  and  exile. 
A  desire  seized  him  to  see  the  place.  Abby  Brooke  had 
been  living  a  few  years  before.  She  might  be  living  now. 

As  the  Doctor  descended  from  the  cars,  he  was  met  by 
Keith,  who  told  him  that  the  patient  was  the  daughter  of 
General  Huntington— the  little  girl  he  had  known  so  long 
ago. 

"I  thought,  perhaps,  it  was  your  widow,"  said  the  Doctor. 

A  little  dash  of  color  stole  into  Keith's  grave  face,  then 
flickered  out. 

507 


GOKDON   KEITH 

"No."  He  changed  the  subject,  and  went  on  to  say  that 
the  other  physicians  had  arranged  to  meet  him  at  the 
house.  Then  he  gave  him  a  little  history  of  the  case. 

"You  are  very  much  interested  in  her?" 

"I  have  known  her  a  long  time,  you  see.  Yes.  Her  aunt 
is  a  friend  of  mine." 

"He  is  in  love  with  her,"  said  the  old  man  to  himself. 
"She  has  cut  the  widow  out." 

As  they  entered  the  hall,  Miss  Abby  came  out  of  a  room. 
She  looked  worn  and  ill. 

"Ah  !"  said  Keith.  "Here  she  is."  He  turned  to  pre 
sent  the  Doctor,  but  stopped  with  his  lips  half  opened. 
The  two  stood  fronting  each  other,  their  amazed  eyes  on 
each  other's  faces,  as  it  were  across  the  space  of  a  whole 
generation. 

"Theophilus!" 

"Abby ! " 

This  was  all.  The  next  moment  they  were  shaking  hands 
as  if  they  had  parted  the  week  before  instead  of  thirty-odd 
years  ago.  "I  told  you  I  would  come  if  you  ever  needed 
me,"  said  the  Doctor.  "I  have  come." 

"And  I  never  needed  you  more,  and  I  have  needed  you 
often.  It  was  good  in  you  to  come — for  my  little  girl." 
Her  voice  suddenly  broke,  and  she  turned  away,  her 
handkerchief  at  her  eyes. 

The  Doctor's  expression  settled  into  one  of  deep  concern. 
"There— there.  Don't  distress  yourself.  We  must  reserve 
our  powers.  We  may  need  them.  Now,  if  you  will  show 
me  to  my  room  for  a  moment,  I  would  like  to  get  myself 
ready  before  going  in  to  see  your  little  girl." 

Just  as  the  Doctor  reappeared,  the  other  doctors  came 
out  of  the  sick-room,  the  local  physician,  a  simple  young 
man,  following  the  city  specialist  with  mingled  pride  and 
awe.  The  latter  was  a  silent,  self-reliant  man  with  a  keen 
eye,  thin  lips,  and  a  dry,  business  manner.  They  were 
presented  to  the  Doctor  as  Dr.  Memberly  and  Dr.  Locaman, 
and  looked  him  over.  There  was  a  certain  change  of  inaii- 

508 


THE   CONSULTATION 

ner  in  each  of  them :  the  younger  man,  after  a  glance, 
increased  perceptibly  his  show  of  respect  toward  the  city 
man  ;  the  latter  treated  the  Doctor  with  civility,  but  talked 
in  an  ex-cathedra  way.  He  understood  the  case  and  had 
110  question  as  to  its  treatment.  As  for  Dr.  Balsam,  his 
manner  was  the  same  to  both,  and  had  not  changed  a  par 
ticle.  He  said  not  a  word  except  to  ask  questions  as  to 
symptoms  and  the  treatment  that  had  been  followed. 
The  Doctor's  face  changed  during  the  recital,  and  when  it 
was  ended  his  expression  was  one  of  deep  thoughtfulness. 

The  consultation  ended,  they  all  went  into  the  sick-room, 
Dr.  Memberly,  the  specialist,  first,  the  young  doctor  next, 
and  Dr.  Balsam  last.  Dr.  Memberly  addressed  the  nurse, 
and  Dr.  Locaman  followed  him  like  his  shadow,  enforcing 
his  words  and  copying  insensibly  his  manner.  Dr.  Balsam 
walked  over  to  the  bedside,  and  leaning  over,  took  the 
patient's  thin,  wan  hand. 

"My  dear,  I  am  Dr.  Balsam.     Do  you  remember  me?  " 

She  glanced  at  him,  at  first  languidly,  then  with  more 
interest,  and  then,  as  recollection  returned  to  her,  with  a 
faint  smile. 

"Now  we  must  get  well." 

Again  she  smiled  faintly. 

The  Doctor  drew  up  a  chair,  and,  without  speaking  fur 
ther,  began  to  stroke  her  hand,  his  eyes  resting  on  her  face. 

One  who  had  seen  the  old  physician  before  he  entered 
that  house  could  scarcely  have  known  him  as  the  same  man 
who  sat  by  the  bed  holding  the  hand  of  the  wan  figure  lying 
so  placid  before  him.  At  a  distance  he  appeared  a  plain 
countryman ;  on  nearer  view  his  eyes  and  mouth  and  set 
chin  gave  him  a  look  of  unexpected  determination.  When 
he  entered  a  sick-room  he  was  like  a  king  coming  to  his 
own.  He  took  command  and  fought  disease  as  an  arch 
enemy.  So  now. 

Dr.  Memberly  came  to  the  bedside  and  began  to  talk  in 
a  low,  professional  tone.  Lois  shut  her  eyes,  but  her  fin 
gers  closed  slightly  on  Dr.  Balsam's  hand. 

509 


GORDON   KEITH 

"The  medicine  appears  to  have  quieted  her  somewhat. 
I  have  directed  the  nurse  to  continue  it,"  observed  Dr. 
Memberly. 

"Quite  so.  By  all  means  continue  it,"  assented  Dr. 
Locaman.  "She  is  decidedly  quieter." 

Dr.  Balsam's  head  inclined  just  enough  to  show  that  he 
heard  him,  and  he  went  on  stroking  her  hand. 

"Is  there  anything  you  would  suggest  further  than  has 
already  been  done?"  inquired  the  city  physician  of  Dr. 
Balsam. 

"No.     I  think  not." 

"I  must  catch  the  4:30  train,"  said  the  former  to  the 
younger  man.  "Doctor,  will  you  drive  me  down  to  the 
station  ?  " 

"Yes,  certainly.     With  pleasure." 

"Doctor,  you  say  you  are  going  away  to-night?"  This 
from  the  city  physician  to  Dr.  Balsam. 

"No,  sir  ;  I  shall  stay  for  a  day  or  two."  The  fingers  of 
the  sleeper  quite  closed  on  his  hand.  "I  have  several  old 
friends  here.  In  fact,  this  little  girl  is  one  of  them,  and  I 
want  to  get  her  up." 

The  look  of  the  other  changed,  and  he  cleared  his  throat 
with  a  dry,  metallic  cough. 

"You  may  rest  satisfied  that  everything  has  been  done 
for  the  patient  that  science  can  do,"  he  said  stiffly. 

"I  think  so.  We  won't  rest  till  we  get  the  little  girl  up," 
said  the  older  doctor.  "Now  we  will  take  off  our  coats 
and  work." 

Once  more  the  fingers  of  the  sleeper  almost  clutched 
his. 

When  the  door  closed,  Lois  turned  her  head  and  opened 
her  eyes,  and  when  the  wheels  were  heard  driving  away 
she  looked  at  the  Doctor  with  a  wan  little  smile,  which  he 
answered  with  a  twinkle. 

"When  did  you  come?"  she  asked  faintly.  It  was  the 
first  sign  of  interest  she  had  shown  in  anything  for  days. 

"A  young  friend  of  mine,  Gordon  Keith,  told  me  you 
510 


THE   CONSULTATION 

were  sick,  and  asked  me  to  come,  and  I  have  just  arrived. 
He  brought  me  up."     He  watched  the  change  in  her  face. 

"I  am  so  much  obliged  to  you.     Where  is  he  now?  " 

"He  is  here.  Now  we  must  get  well/'  he  said  encourag 
ingly.  "And  to  do  that  we  must  get  a  little  sleep." 

"Very  well.     You  are  going  to  stay  with  me?" 

"Yes." 

"Thank  you"  ;  and  she  closed  her  eyes  tranquilly  and, 
after  a  little,  fell  into  a  doze. 

When  the  Doctor  came  out  of  the  sick-room  he  had  done 
what  the  other  physicians  had  not  done  and  could  not  do. 
He  had  fathomed  the  case,  and,  understanding  the  cause,  he 
was  able  to  prescribe  the  cure. 

"With  the  help  of  God  we  will  get  your  little  girl  well," 
he  said  to  Miss  Abby. 

"I  begin  to  hope,  and  I  had  begun  to  despair,"  she  said. 
"It  was  good  of  you  to  come." 

"I  am  glad  I  came,  and  I  will  come  whenever  you  want 
me,  Abby,"  replied  the  old  Doctor,  simply. 

From  this  time,  as  he  promised,  so  he  performed.  He 
took  off  his  coat,  and  using  the  means  which  the  city  spe 
cialist  had  suggested,  he  studied  his  patient's  case  and  ap 
plied  all  his  powers  to  the  struggle. 

The  great  city  doctor  recorded  the  case  among  his  cures  $ 
but  in  his  treatment  he  did  not  reckon  the  sleepless  hours 
that  that  country  doctor  had  sat  by  the  patient's  bedside, 
the  unremitting  struggle  he  had  made,  holding  Death  at  bay, 
inspiring  hope,  and  holding  desperately  every  inch  gained. 

When  the  Doctor  saw  Keith  he  held  out  his  hand  to  him. 
"I  am  glad  you  sent  for  me." 

"How  is  she,  Doctor  t     Will  she  get  well  ?  " 

"I  trust  so.  She  has  been  under  some  strain.  It  is  al 
most  as  if  she  had  had  a  shock." 

Keith's  mind  sprang  back  to  that  evening  in  the  Park, 
and  he  cursed  Wickersham  in  his  heart. 

"Possibly  she  has  had  some  strain  on  her  emotions? " 

Keith  did  not  know. 

511 


GORDON   KEITH 

"I  understand  that  there  is  a  young  man  here  who  has 
been  in  love  with  her  for  some  time,  and  her  aunt  thinks 
she  returned  the  sentiment." 

Keith  did  not  know.  But  the  Doctor's  words  were  like 
a  dagger  in  his  heart. 

Keith  went  back  to  work ;  but  he  seemed  to  himself  to 
live  in  darkness.  As  soon  as  a  gleam  of  light  appeared,  it 
was  suddenly  quenched.  Love  was  not  for  him. 


512 


CHAPTER  XXXV 
THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   LAWNS 

STRANGE  to  say,  the  episode  in  which  Keith  had 
figured  as  the  reliever  of  Norman  Wentworth's  em 
barrassment  had  a  very  different  effect  upon  those  among 
whom  he  had  moved,  from  what  he  had  expected.  Keith's 
part  in  the  transaction  was  well  known. 

His  part,  too,  in  the  Wickersham  matter  was  understood 
by  his  acquaintances.  Wickersham  had  as  good  as  ab 
sconded,  some  said  ;  and  there  were  many  to  tell  how  long 
they  had  prophesied  this  very  thing,  and  how  well  they  had 
known  his  villany.  Mrs.  Nailor  was  particularly  vindic 
tive.  She  had  recently  put  some  money  in  his  mining 
scheme,  and  she  could  have  hanged  him.  She  did  the  next 
thing :  she  damned  him.  She  even  extended  her  rage  to 
old  Mrs.  Wickersham,  who,  poor  lady,  had  lost  her  home 
and  everything  she  had  in  the  world  through  Ferdy. 

The  Norman-Wentworths,  who  had  moved  out  of  the 
splendid  residence  that  Mrs.  Norman's  extravagance  had 
formerly  demanded,  into  the  old  house  on  Washington 
Square,  which  was  still  occupied  by  old  Mrs.  Wentworth, 
were,  if  anything,  drawn  closer  than  ever  to  their  real 
friends  ;  but  they  were  distinctly  deposed  from  the  position 
which  Mrs.  Wentworth  had  formerly  occupied  in  the  gay 
set,  who  to  her  had  hitherto  been  New  York.  They  were 
far  happier  than  they  had  ever  been.  A  new  light  had 
come  into  Norman's  face,  and  a  softness  began  to  dawn  in 
hers  which  Keith  had  never  seen  there  before.  Around 

513 


GORDON  KEITH 

them,  too,  began  to  gather  friends  whom  Keith  had  never 
known  of,  who  had  the  charm  that  breeding  and  kindness 
give,  and  opened  his  eyes  to  a  life  there  of  which  he  had 
hitherto  hardly  dreamed.  Keith,  however,  to  his  surprise, 
when  he  was  in  New  York,  found  himself  more  sought 
after  by  his  former  acquaintances  than  ever  before.  The 
cause  was  a  simple  one.  He  was  believed  to  be  very  rich. 
He  must  have  made  a  large  fortune.  The  mystery  in  which 
it  was  involved  but  added  to  its  magnitude.  No  man  but 
one  of  immense  wealth  could  have  done  what  Keith  did 
the  day  he  stopped  the  run  on  Wentworth  &  Son.  Any 
other  supposition  was  incredible.  Moreover,  it  was  now 
plain  that  in  a  little  while  he  would  marry  Mrs.  Lancaster, 
and  then  he  would  be  one  of  the  wealthiest  men  in  New 
York.  He  was  undoubtedly  a  coming  man.  Men  who,  a 
short  time  ago,  would  not  have  wasted  a  moment's  thought 
on  him,  now  greeted  him  with  cordiality  and  spoke  of  him 
with  respect ;  women  who,  a  year  or  two  before,  would  not 
have  seen  him  in  a  ball-room,  now  smiled  to  him  on  the 
street,  invited  him  among  their  "best  companies,"  and 
treated  him  with  distinguished  favor.  Mrs.  Nailor  actu 
ally  pursued  him.  Even  Mr.  Kestrel,  pale,  thin-lipped,  and 
frosty  as  ever  in  appearance,  thawed  into  something  like 
cordiality  when  he  met  him,  and  held  out  an  icy  hand  as 
with  a  wintry  smile  he  congratulated  him  on  his  success. 

"Well,  we  Yankees  used  to  think  we  had  the  monopoly 
of  business  ability,  but  we  shall  have  to  admit  that  some  of 
you  young  fellows  at  the  South  know  your  business.  You 
have  done  what  cost  the  Wickershams  some  millions.  If 
you  want  any  help  at  any  time,  come  in  and  talk  to  me. 
We  had  a  little  difference  once  ;  but  I  don't  let  a  little  thing 
like  that  stand  in  the  way  with  a  friend." 

Keith  felt  his  jaws  lock  as  he  thought  of  the  same  man 
on  the  other  side  of  a  long  table  sneering  at  him. 

"Thank  you,"  said  he.  "My  success  has  been  greatly 
exaggerated.  You'd  better  not  count  too  much  on  it." 

Keith  knew  that  he  was  considered  rich,  and  it  disturbed 

514 


THE   MISTEESS   OF  THE   LAWNS 

him.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  felt  that  he  was  sail 
ing  under  false  colors. 

Often  the  fair  face,  handsome  figure,  and  cordial,  friendly 
air  of  Alice  Lancaster  came  to  him  ;  not  so  often,  it  is  true, 
as  another,  a  younger  and  gentler  face,  but  still  often 
enough.  He  admired  her  greatly.  He  trusted  her.  Why 
should  he  not  try  his  fortune  there,  and  be  happy  ?  Alice 
Lancaster  was  good  enough  for  him.  Yes,  that  was  the 
trouble.  She  was  far  too  good  for  him  if  he  addressed  her 
without  loving  her  utterly.  Other  reasons,  too,  suggested 
themselves.  He  began  to  find  himself  fitting  more  and 
more  into  the  city  life.  He  had  the  chance  possibly  to 
become  rich,  richer  than  ever,  and  with  it  to  secure  a 
charming  companion.  Why  should  he  not  avail  himself 
of  it?  Amid  the  glitter  and  gayety  of  his  surroundings 
in  the  city,  this  temptation  grew  stronger  and  stronger. 
Miss  Abby's  sharp  speech  recurred  to  him.  He  was  becom 
ing  "a  fair  counterfeit "  of  the  men  he  had  once  despised. 
Then  came  a  new  form  of  temptation.  What  power  this 
wealth  would  give  him  !  How  much  good  he  could  accom 
plish  with  it ! 

When  the  temptation  grew  too  overpowering  he  left  his 
office  and  went  down  Into  the  country.  It  always  did  him 
good  to  go  there.  To  be  there  was  like  a  plunge  in  a 
cool,  limpid  pool.  He  had  been  so  long  in  the  turmoil  and 
strife  of  the  struggle  for  success— for  wealth  ;  had  been  so 
wholly  surrounded  by  those  who  strove  as  he  strove,  tear 
ing  and  trampling  and  rending  those  who  were  in  their 
way,  that  he  had  almost  lost  sight  of  the  life  that  lay  out 
side  of  the  dust  and  din  of  that  arena.  He  had  almost  for 
gotten  that  life  held  other  rewards  than  riches.  He  had 
forgotten  the  calm  and  tranquil  region  that  stretched  be 
yond  the  moil  and  anguish  of  the  strife  for  gain. 

Here  his  father  walked  with  him  again,  calm,  serene,  and 
elevated,  his  thoughts  high  above  all  commercial  matters, 
ranging  the  fields  of  lofty  speculation  with  statesmen,  phi 
losophers,  and  poets,  holding  up  to  his  gaze  again  lofty 

515 


GOKDON  KEITH 

ideals ;  practising,  without  a  thought  of  reward,  the  very 
gospel  of  universal  gentleness  and  kindness. 

There  his  mother,  too,  moved  in  spirit  once  more  beside 
him  with  her  angelic  smile,  breathing  the  purity  of  heaven. 
How  far  away  it  seemed  from  that  world  in  which  he  had 
been  living !— as  far  as  they  were  from  the  worldlings  who 
made  it. 

Curiously,  when  he  was  in  New  York  he  found  himself 
under  the  allurement  of  Alice  Lancaster.  When  he  was 
in  the  country  he  found  that  he  was  in  love  with  Lois 
Huntington. 

It  was  this  that  mystified  him  and  worried  him.  He 
believed— that  is,  he  almost  believed— that  Alice  Lancaster 
would  marry  him.  His  friends  thought  that  she  would.  Sev 
eral  of  them  had  told  him  so.  Many  of  them  acted  on  this 
belief.  And  this  had  something  to  do  with  his  retirement. 

As  much  as  he  liked  Alice  Lancaster,  as  clearly  as  he  felt 
how  but  for  one  fact  it  would  have  suited  that  they  should 
marry,  one  fact  changed  everything :  he  was  not  in  love 
with  her. 

He  was  in  love  with  a  young  girl  who  had  never  given 
him  a  thought  except  as  a  sort  of  hereditary  friend.  Turn 
ing  from  one  door  at  which  the  light  of  happiness  had 
shone,  he  had  found  himself  caught  at  another  from  which 
a  radiance  shone  that  dimmed  all  other  lights.  Yet  it  was 
fast  shut.  At  length  he  determined  to  cut  the  knot.  He 
would  put  his  fate  to  the  test. 

Two  days  after  he  formed  this  resolve  he  walked  into  the 
hotel  at  Brookford  and  registered.  As  he  turned,  he  stood 
face  to  face  with  Mrs.  Nailor.  Mrs.  Nailor  of  late  had  been 
all  cordiality  to  him. 

"Why,  you  dear  boy,  where  did  you  come  from?"  she 
asked  him  in  pleased  surprise.  "I  thought  you  were 
stretched  at  Mrs.  Wentworth's  feet  in  the—  Where  has 
she  been  this  summer  f  " 

Keith's  brow  clouded.  He  remembered  when  Wicker- 
sham  was  her  "dear  boy." 

516 


THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   LAWNS 

"It  is  a  position  I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  occupying— at 
least,  toward  ladies  who  have  husbands  to  occupy  it.  You 
are  thinking  of  some  one  else,"  he  added  coldly,  wishing 
devoutly  that  Mrs.  Nailor  were  in  Halifax. 

"Well,  I  am  glad  you  have  come  here.  You  remember, 
our  friendship  began  in  the  country?  Yes?  My  husband 
had  to  go  and  get  sick,  and  I  got  really  frightened  about 
him,  and  so  we  determined  to  come  here,  where  we  should 
be  perfectly  quiet.  We  got  here  last  Saturday.  There  is 
not  a  man  here." 

"Isn't  there?"  asked  Keith,  wishing  there  were  not  a 
woman  either.  "How  long  are  you  going  to  stay?"  he 
asked  absently. 

"Oh,  perhaps  a  month.     How  long  shall  you  be  here? " 

"Not  very  long,"  said  Keith. 

"I  tell  you  who  is  here ;  that  little  governess  of  Mrs. 
Wentworth's  she  was  so  disagreeable  to  last  winter.  She 
has  been  very  ill.  I  think  it  was  the  way  she  was  treated 
in  New  York.  She  was  in  love  with  Ferdy  Wickersham, 
you  know?  She  lives  here,  in  a  lovely  old  place  just  out 
side  of  town,  with  her  old  aunt  or  cousin.  I  had  no  idea 
she  had  such  a  nice  old  home.  We  saw  her  yesterday. 
We  met  her  on  the  street." 

"I  remember  her ;  I  shall  go  and  see  her,"  said  Keith, 
recalling  Mrs.  Nailor's  speech  at  Mrs.  Wickersham's  dinner, 
and  Lois's  revenge. 

"I  tell  you  what  we  will  do.  She  invited  us  to  call,  and 
we  will  go  together,"  said  Mrs.  Nailor. 

Keith  paused  a  moment  in  reflection,  and  then  said 
casually : 

"When  are  you  going?" 

"Oh,  this  afternoon." 

"Very  well ;  I  will  go." 

Mrs.  Nailor  drove  Keith  out  to  The  Lawns  that  after 
noon. 

In  a  little  while  Miss  Huntington  came  in.  Keith  ob 
served  that  she  was  dressed  as  she  had  been  that  evening 

517 


GORDON   KEITH 

at  dinner,  in  white,  but  he  did  not  dream  that  it  was  the 
result  of  thought.  He  did  not  know  with  what  care  every 
touch  had  been  made  to  reproduce  just  what  he  had  praised, 
or  with  what  sparkling  eyes  she  had  surveyed  the  slim, 
dainty  figure  in  the  old  cheval-glass.  She  greeted  Mrs. 
Nailor  civilly  and  Keith  warmly. 

"I  am  very  glad  to  see  you.  What  in  the  world  brought 
you  here  to  this  out-of-the-way  place?"  she  said,  turning  to 
the  latter  and  giving  him  her  cool,  soft  hand,  and  looking 
up  at  him  with  unfeigned  pleasure,  a  softer  and  deeper 
glow  coming  into  her  cheek  as  she  gazed  into  his  eyes. 

"A  sudden  fit  of  insanity,"  said  Keith,  taking  in  the 
sweet,  girlish  figure  in  his  glance.  "I  wanted  to  see  some 
roses  that  I  knew  bloomed  in  an  old  garden  about  here." 

"He,  perhaps,  thought  that,  as  Brookford  is  growing  so 
fashionable  now,  he  might  find  a  mutual  friend  of  ours 
here  f  "  Mrs.  Nailor  said. 

" As  whom,  for  instance?"  queried  Keith,  unwilling  to 
commit  himself. 

"You  know,  Alice  Lancaster  has  been  talking  of  coming 
here  I  Now,  don't  pretend  that  you  don't  know.  Whom 
does  every  one  say  you  are— all  in  pursuit  of?  " 

"I  am  sure  I  do  not  know,"  said  Keith,  calmly.  "I  sup 
pose  that  you  are  referring  to  Mrs.  Lancaster,  but  I  hap 
pened  to  know  that  she  was  not  here.  No  ;  I  came  to  see 
Miss  Huntington."  His  face  wore  an  expression  of  amuse 
ment. 

Mrs.  Nailor  made  some  smiling  reply.  She  did  not  see 
the  expression  in  Keith's  eyes  as  they,  for  a  second,  caught 
Lois's  glance. 

Just  then  Miss  Abigail  came  in.  She  had  grown  whiter 
since  Keith  had  seen  her  last,  and  looked  older.  She 
greeted  Mrs.  Nailor  graciously,  and  Keith  cordially.  Miss 
Lois,  for  some  reason  of  her  own,  was  plying  Mrs.  Nailor 
with  questions,  and  Keith  fell  to  talking  with  Miss  Abigail, 
though  his  eyes  were  on  Lois  most  of  the  time. 

The  old  lady  was  watching  her  too,  and  the  girl,  under 

518 


THE   MISTKESS  OF  THE   LAWNS 

the  influence  of  the  earnest  gaze,  glanced  around  and, 
catching  her  aunt's  eye  upon  her,  flashed  her  a  little  an 
swering  smile  full  of  affection  and  tenderness,  and  then 
went  on  listening  intently  to  Mrs.  Nailor  ;  though,  had  Keith 
read  aright  the  color  rising  in  her  cheeks,  he  might  have 
guessed  that  she  was  giving  at  least  half  her  attention  to 
his  side  of  the  room,  where  Miss  Abigail  was  talking  of  her. 
Keith,  however,  was  just  then  much  interested  in  Miss 
Abigail's  account  of  Dr.  Locaman,  who,  it  seemed,  was  more 
attentive  to  Lois  than  ever. 

"I  don't  know  what  she  will  do,"  she  said.  "I  suppose 
she  will  decide  soon.  It  is  an  affair  of  long  standing." 

Keith's  throat  had  grown  dry. 

"I  had  hoped  that  my  cousin  Norman  might  prove  a  pro 
tector  for  her  ;  but  his  wife  is  not  a  good  person.  I  was  mad 
to  let  her  go  there.  But  she  would  go.  She  thought  she 
could  be  of  some  service.  But  that  woman  is  such  a  fool ! " 

"Oh,  she  is  not  a  bad  woman,"  interrupted  Keith. 

"I  do  not  know  how  bad  she  is,"  said  Miss  Abigail. 
"She  is  a  fool.  No  good  woman  would  ever  have  allowed 
such  an  intimacy  as  she  allowed  to  come  between  her  and 
her  husband ;  and  none  but  a  fool  would  have  permitted  a 
man  to  make  her  his  dupe.  She  did  not  even  have  the 
excuse  of  a  temptation ;  for  she  is  as  cold  as  a  tombstone." 

"I  assure  you  that  you  are  mistaken,"  defended  Keith. 
"I  know  her,  and  I  believe  that  she  has  far  more  depth 
than  you  give  her  credit  for—" 

"I  give  her  credit  for  none,"  said  Miss  Abigail,  decisively. 
"You  men  are  all  alike.  You  think  a  woman  with  a 
pretty  face  who  does  not  talk  much  is  deep,  when  she  is 
only  dull.  On  my  word,  I  think  it  is  almost  worse  to  bring 
about  such  a  scandal  without  cause  than  to  give  a  real 
cause  for  it.  In  the  latter  case  there  is  at  least  the  time- 
worn  excuse  of  woman's  frailty." 

Keith  laughed. 

"They  are  all  so  stupid,"  asserted  Miss  Abigail, 
fiercely.  "They  are  giving  up  their  privileges  to  be— 

519 


GOKDON   KEITH 

what  ?  I  blushed  for  my  sex  when  I  was  there.  They 
are  beginning  to  mistake  civility  for  servility.  I  found  a 
plenty  of  old  ladies  tottering  on  the  edge  of  the  grave,  like 
myself,  and  I  found  a  number  of  ladies  in  the  shops  and 
in  the  churches ;  but  in  that  set  that  you  go  with—  ! 
They  all  want  to  be  '  women J ;  next  thing  they'll  want  to 
be  like  men.  I  sha'n't  be  surprised  to  see  them  come  to 
wearing  men's  clothes  and  drinking  whiskey  and  smoking 
tobacco— the  little  fools  !  As  if  they  thought  that  a  woman 
who  has  to  curl  her  hair  and  spend  a  half-hour  over  her 
dress  to  look  decent  could  ever  be  on  a  level  with  a  man 
who  can  handle  a  trunk  or  drive  a  wagon  or  add  up  a 
column  of  figures,  and  can  wash  his  face  and  hands  and 
put  on  a  clean  collar  and  look  like— a  gentleman  ! " 

"Oh,  not  so  bad  as  that,"  said  Keith. 

"Yes ;  there  is  no  limit  to  their  folly.  I  know  them.  I 
am  one  myself." 

"But  you  do  not  want  to  be  a  man? " 

"No,  not  now.  I  am  too  old  and  dependent.  But  I'll 
let  you  into  a  secret.  I  am  secretly  envious  of  them. 
I'd  like  to  be  able  to  put  them  down  under  my  heel  and 
make  them— squeal." 

Mrs.  Kailor  turned  and  spoke  to  the  old  lady.  She  was 
evidently  about  to  take  her  leave.  Keith  moved  over,  and 
for  the  first  time  addressed  Miss  Huntington. 

"I  want  you  to  show  me  about  these  grounds,"  he  said, 
speaking  so  that  both  ladies  could  hear  him.  He  rose,  and 
both  walked  out  of  the  parlor.  When  Mrs.  Nailor  came 
out,  Keith  and  his  guide  were  nowhere  to  be  found,  so  she 
had  to  wait ;  but  a  half-hour  afterwards  he  and  Miss  Hunt 
ington  came  back  from  the  stables. 

As  they  drove  out  of  the  grounds  they  passed  a  good-look 
ing  young  fellow  just  going  in.  Keith  recognized  Dr. 
Locaman. 

"That  is  the  young  man  who  is  so  attentive  to  your 
young  friend,"  said  Mrs.  Nailor  j  "Dr.  Locaman.  He  saved 
her  life  and  now  is  going  to  marry  her." 

520 


THE  MISTKESS  OF  THE  LAWNS 

It  gave  Keith  a  pang. 

"I  know  him.  He  did  not  save  her  life.  If  anybody 
did  that,  it  was  an  old  country  doctor,  Dr.  Balsam." 

"That  old  man  !     I  thought  he  was  dead  years  ago." 

"Well,  he  is  not.     He  is  very  much  alive." 

A  few  evenings  later  Keith  found  Mrs.  Lancaster  in  the 
hotel.  He  had  just  arrived  from  The  Lawns  when  Mrs. 
Lancaster  came  down  to  dinner.  Her  greeting  was  perfect. 
Even  Mrs.  Nailor  was  mystified.  She  had  never  looked 
handsomer.  Her  black  gown  fitted  perfectly  her  trim 
figure,  and  a  single  red  rose,  half-blown,  caught  in  her 
bodice  was  her  only  ornament.  She  possessed  the  gift  of 
simplicity.  She  was  a  beautiful  walker,  and  as  she  moved 
slowly  down  the  long  dining-room  as  smoothly  as  a  piece  of 
perfect  machinery,  every  eye  was  upon  her.  She  knew  that 
she  was  being  generally  observed,  and  the  color  deepened 
in  her  cheeks  and  added  the  charm  of  freshness  to  her 
beauty. 

"By  Jove !  what  a  stunning  woman !"  exclaimed  a  man 
at  a  table  near  by  to  his  wife. 

"It  is  not  difficult  to  be  *a  stunning  woman'  in  a 
Worth  gown,  my  dear,"  she  said  sweetly.  "May  I  trouble 
you  for  the  Worcestershire  ?  " 

Keith's  attitude  toward  Mrs.  Lancaster  puzzled  even  so 
old  a  veteran  as  Mrs.  Nailor. 

Mrs.  Nailor  was  an  adept  in  the  art  of  inquisition.  To 
know  about  her  friends7  affairs  was  one  of  the  objects  of 
her  life,  and  it  was  not  only  the  general  facts  that  she 
insisted  on  knowing :  she  proposed  to  be  acquainted  with 
their  deepest  secrets  and  the  smallest  particulars.  She 
knew  Alice  Lancaster's  views,  or  believed  she  did  ;  but  she 
had  never  ventured  to  speak  on  the  subject  to  Gordon  Keith. 
In  fact,  she  stood  in  awe  of  Keith,  and  now  he  had  mysti 
fied  her  by  his  action.  Finally,  she  could  stand  it  no  longer, 
and  so  next  evening  she  opened  fire  on  Keith.  Having 
screwed  her  courage  to  the  sticking-point,  she  attacked 
boldly.  She  caught  him  on  the  verandah,  smoking  alone, 

521 


GORDON   KEITH 

and  watching  him  closely  to  catch  the  effect  of  her  attack, 
said  suddenly : 

"I  want  to  ask  you  a  question :  are  you  in  love  with 
Alice  Lancaster?" 

Keith  turned  slowly  and  looked  at  her,  looked  at  her  so 
long  that  she  began  to  blush. 

"Don't  you  think,  if  I  am,  I  had  better  inform  her  first?  " 
he  said  quietly. 

Mrs.  bailor  was  staggered  ;  but  she  was  in  for  it,  and  she 
had  to  fight  her  way  through.  "I  was  scared  to  death,  my 
dear,"  she  said  when  she  repeated  this  part  of  the  conver 
sation,  "for  I  never  know  just  how  he  is  going  to  take  any 
thing  ;  but  he  was  so  quiet,  I  went  on." 

"Well,  yes,  I  think  you  had,"  she  said ;  "Alice  can  take 
care  of  herself  j  but  I  tell  you  that  you  have  no  right  to  be 
carrying  on  with  that  sweet,  innocent  young  girl  here.  You 
know  what  people  say  of  you?  " 

"No  ;  I  do  not,"  said  Keith.  "I  was  not  aware  that  I 
was  of  sufficient  importance  here  for  people  to  say  any 
thing,  except  perhaps  a  few  persons  who  know  me." 

"They  say  you  have  come  here  to  see  Miss  Huntington  ? " 

"Do  they?"  asked  Keith,  so  carelessly  that  Mrs.  Nailor 
was  just  thinking  that  she  must  be  mistaken,  when  he 
added  :  "Well,  will  you  ask  people  if  they  ever  heard  what 
Andrew  Jackson  said  to  Mr.  Buchanan  once  when  he  told 
him  it  was  time  to  go  and  dress  to  receive  Lady  Wellesley  ?  " 

"What  did  he  say  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  ^Tailor. 

"He  said  he  knew  a  man  in  Tennessee  who  had  made  a 
fortune  by  attending  to  his  own  business." 

Having  failed  with  Keith,  Mrs.  Nailor,  the  next  after 
noon,  called  on  Miss  Huntington.  Lois  was  in,  and  her 
aunt  was  not  well ;  so  Mrs.  Nailor  had  a  fair  field  for  her 
research.  She  decided  to  test  the  young  girl,  and  she 
selected  the  only  mode  which  could  have  been  successful 
with  herself.  She  proposed  a  surprise.  She  spoke  of 
Keith  and  noticed  the  increased  interest  with  which  the 
girl  listened.  This  was  promising. 

522 


THE   MISTRESS   OF  THE   LAWNS 

"By  the  way,"  she  said,  "you  know  the  report  is  that 
Mr.  Keith  has  at  last  really  surrendered?" 

"Has  he?  I  am  so  glad.  If  ever  a  man  deserved  hap 
piness  it  is  he.  Who  is  it?  " 

The  entire  absence  of  self-consciousness  in  Lois's  ex 
pression  and  voice  surprised  Mrs.  Nailor. 

"Mrs.  Lancaster,"  she  said,  watching  for  the  effect  of  her 
answer.  "Of  course,  you  know  he  has  always  been  in  love 
with  her?" 

The  girPs  expression  of  unfeigned  admiration  of  Mrs. 
Lancaster  gave  Mrs.  Kailor  another  surprise.  She  decided 
that  she  had  been  mistaken  in  suspecting  her  of  caring  for 
Keith. 

"He  has  evidently  not  proposed  yet.  If  she  were  a  little 
older  I  should  be  certain  of  it,"  she  said  to  herself  as  she 
drove  away  ;  "but  these  girls  are  so  secretive  one  can  never 
tell  about  them.  Even  I  could  not  look  as  innocent  as 
that  to  save  my  life  if  I  were  interested." 

That  evening  Keith  called  at  The  Lawns.  He  did  not 
take  with  him  a  placid  spirit.  Mrs.  bailor's  shaft  had  gone 
home,  and  it  rankled.  He  tried  to  assure  himself  that  what 
people  were  thinking  had  nothing  to  do  with  him.  But 
suppose  Miss  Abigail  took  this  view  of  the  matter?  He 
determined  to  ascertain.  One  solution  of  the  difficulty  lay 
plain  before  him :  he  could  go  away.  Another  presented 
itself,  but  it  was  preposterous.  Of  all  the  women  he  knew 
Lois  Huntington  was  the  least  affected  by  him  in  the  way 
that  flatters  a  man.  She  liked  him,  he  knew  j  but  if  he 
could  read  women  at  all,  and  he  thought  he  could,  she  liked 
him  only  as  a  friend,  and  had  not  a  particle  of  sentiment 
about  him.  He  was  easy,  then,  as  to  the  point  Mrs.  Nailor 
had  raised ;  but  had  he  the  right  to  subject  Lois  to  gossip? 
This  was  the  main  thing  that  troubled  him.  He  was  half 
angry  with  himself  that  it  kept  rising  in  his  mind.  He  deter 
mined  to  find  out  what  her  aunt  thought  of  it,  and  decided 
that  he  could  let  that  direct  his  course.  This  salved  his 
conscience.  Once  or  twice  the  question  dimly  presented 

523 


GORDON   KEITH 

itself  whether  it  were  possible  that  Lois  could  care  for  him. 
He  banished  it  resolutely. 

When  he  reached  The  Lawns,  he  found  that  Miss  Abigail 
was  sick,  so  the  virtuous  plan  he  had  formed  fell  through. 
He  was  trying  to  fancy  himself  sorry  ;  but  when  Lois  came 
out  on  the  verandah  in  a  dainty  blue  gown  which  fell  softly 
about  her  girlish  figure,  and  seated  herself  with  uncon 
scious  grace  in  the  easy-chair  he  pushed  up  for  her,  he 
knew  that  he  was  glad  to  have  her  all  to  himself.  They 
fell  to  talking  about  her  aunt. 

"I  am  dreadfully  uneasy  about  her,"  the  girl  said. 
"Once  or  twice  of  late  she  has  had  something  like  fainting 
spells,  and  the  last  one  was  very  alarming.  You  don't 
know  what  she  has  been  to  me."  She  looked  up  at  him 
with  a  silent  appeal  for  sympathy  which  made  his  heart 
beat.  "She  is  the  only  mother  I  ever  knew,  and  she  is  all 
I  have  in  the  world."  Her  voice  faltered,  and  she  turned 
away  her  head.  A  tear  stole  down  her  cheek  and  dropped 
in  her  lap.  "I  am  so  glad  you  like  each  other.  I  hear 
you  are  engaged,"  she  said  suddenly. 

He  was  startled ;  it  chimed  in  so  with  the  thought  in  his 
mind  at  the  moment. 

"No,  I  am  not  $  but  I  would  like  to  be." 

He  came  near  saying  a  great  deal  more ;  but  the  girl's 
eyes  were  fixed  on  him  so  innocently  that  he  for  a  moment 
hesitated.  He  felt  it  would  be  folly,  if  not  sacrilege,  to  go 
further. 

Just  then  there  was  a  step  on  the  walk,  and  the  young 
man  Keith  had  seen,  Dr.  Locaman,  came  up  the  steps.  He 
was  a  handsome  man,  stout,  well  dressed,  and  well  satisfied. 

Keith  could  have  consigned  him  and  all  his  class  to  a 
distant  and  torrid  clime. 

He  came  up  the  steps  cheerily  and  began  talking  at  once. 
He  was  so  glad  to  see  Keith,  and  had  he  heard  lately 
from  Dr.  Balsam?— "such  a  fine  type  of  the  old  country 
doctor,"  etc. 

No,  Keith  said ;  he  had  not  heard  lately.  His  manner 

524 


THE  MISTKESS  OF  THE   LAWNS 

had  stiffened  at  the  young  man's  condescension,  and  he 
rose  to  go. 

He  said  casually  to  Lois,  as  he  shook  hands,  "How  did 
you  hear  the  piece  of  news  you  mentioned  t " 

"Mrs.  Nailor  told  me.    You  must  tell  me  all  about  it." 

•"I  will  sometime." 

"I  hope  you  will  be  very  happy,"  she  said  earnestly; 
"you  deserve  to  be."  Her  eyes  were  very  soft. 

"No,  I  do  not,"  said  Keith,  almost  angrily.  "I  am  not 
at  all  what  you  suppose  me  to  be." 

"I  will  not  allow  you  to  say  such  things  of  yourself," 
she  said,  smiling.  "I  will  not  stand  my  friends  being  abused 
even  by  themselves." 

Keith  felt  his  courage  waning.  Her  beauty,  her  sincer 
ity,  her  tenderness,  her  innocence,  her  sweetness  thrilled 
him.  He  turned  back  to  her  abruptly. 

"I  hope  you  will  always  think  that  of  me,"  he  said  ear 
nestly.  "I  promise  to  try  to  deserve  it.  Good-by." 

"Good-by.     Don't  forget  me."     She  held  out  her  hand. 

Keith  took  it  and  held  it  for  a  second. 

"Never,"  he  said,  looking  her  straight  in  the  eyes. 
"Good-by  "  ;  and  with  a  muttered  good-by  to  Dr.  Locaman, 
who  stood  with  wide-open  eyes  gazing  at  him,  he  turned 
and  went  down  the  steps. 

"I  don't  like  that  man,"  said  the  young  Doctor.  This 
speech  sealed  his  fate. 

"Don't  you?  I  do,"  said  Lois,  half  dreamily.  Her 
thoughts  were  far  from  the  young  physician  at  that 
moment ;  and  when  they  returned  to  him,  she  knew  that 
she  would  never  marry  him.  A  half-hour  later,  he  knew  it. 

The  next  morning  Lois  received  a  note  from  Keith,  say 
ing  he  had  left  for  his  home. 

When  he  bade  Mrs.  Lancaster  good-by  that  evening,  she 
looked  as  if  she  were  really  sorry  that  he  was  going.  She 
walked  with  him  down  the  verandah  toward  where  his 
carriage  awaited  him,  and  Keith  thought  she  had  never 
looked  sweeter. 

525 


GORDON   KEITH 

He  had  never  had  a  confidante,— at  least,  since  he  was  a 
college  boy,— and  a  little  of  the  old  feeling  came  to  him. 
He  lingered  a  little  ;  but  just  then  Mrs.  Nailor  came  out  of 
the  door  near  him.  For  a  moment  Keith  could  almost  have 
fancied  he  was  back  on  the  verandah  at  Gates's.  Her 
mousing  around  had  turned  back  the  dial  a  dozen  years. 

Just  what  brought  it  about,  perhaps,  no  one  of  the  par 
ticipants  in  the  little  drama  could  have  told  ;  but  from  this 
time  the  relations  between  the  two  ladies  whom  Keith  left 
at  the  hotel  that  Summer  night  somehow  changed.  Not 
outwardly,  for  they  still  sat  and  talked  together  ;  but  they 
were  both  conscious  of  a  difference.  They  rather  fenced 
with  each  other  after  that.  Mrs.  Nailor  set  it  down  to  a 
simple  cause.  Mrs.  Lancaster  was  in  love  with  Gordon 
Keith,  and  he  had  not  addressed  her.  Of  this  she  was  sat 
isfied.  Yet  she  was  a  little  mystified.  Mrs.  Lancaster 
hardly  defined  the  reason  to  herself.  She  simply  shut  up 
on  the  side  toward  Mrs.  Nailor,  and  barred  her  out.  A 
strange  thing  was  that  she  and  Miss  Huntington  became 
great  friends.  They  took  to  riding  together,  walking  to 
gether,  and  seeing  a  great  deal  of  each  other,  the  elder 
lady  spending  much  of  her  time  up  at  Miss  Huntington's 
home,  among  the  shrubbery  and  flowers  of  the  old  place. 
It  was  a  mystification  to  Mrs.  Nailor,  who  frankly  con 
fessed  that  she  could  only  account  for  it  on  the  ground 
that  Mrs.  Lancaster  wanted  to  find  out  how  far  matters  had 
gone  between  Keith  and  Miss  Huntington.  "That  girl  is  a 
sly  minx/'  she  said.  "These  governesses  learn  to  be  de 
ceptive.  I  would  not  have  her  in  my  house." 

If  there  was  a  more  dissatisfied  mortal  in  the  world 
than  Gordon  Keith  that  Autumn  Keith  did  not  know 
him.  He  worked  hard,  but  it  did  not  ease  his  mind.  He 
tried  retiring  to  his  old  home,  as  he  had  done  in  the  Sum 
mer  ;  but  it  was  even  worse  than  it  had  been  then.  Rumor 
came  to  him  that  Lois  Huntington  was  engaged.  It  came 
through  Mrs.  Nailor,  and  he  could  not  verify  it ;  but,  at 
least,  she  was  lost  to  him.  He  cursed  himself  for  a  fool. 

526 


THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   LAWNS 

The  picture  of  Mrs.  Lancaster  began  to  come  to  him 
oftener  and  oftener  as  she  had  appeared  to  him  that  night 
on  the  verandah— handsome,  dignified,  serene,  sympathetic. 
Why  should  he  not  seek  release  by  this  way?  He  had 
always  admired,  liked  her.  He  felt  her  sympathy ;  he 
recognized  her  charm ;  he  appreciated  her— yes,  her  ad 
vantage.  Curse  it !  that  was  the  trouble.  If  he  were  only 
in  love  with  her  !  If  she  were  not  so  manifestly  advanta 
geous,  then  he  might  think  his  feeling  was  more  than 
friendship  ;  for  she  was  everything  that  he  admired. 

He  was  just  in  this  frame  of  mind  when  a  letter  came 
from  Rhodes,  who  had  come  home  soon  after  Keith's  visit 
to  him.  He  had  not  been  very  well,  and  they  had  decided 
to  take  a  yacht-cruise  in  Southern  waters,  and  would  he 
not  come  along?  He  could  join  them  at  either  Hampton 
Roads  or  Savannah,  and  they  were  going  to  run  over  to  the 
Bermudas. 

Keith  telegraphed  that  he  would  join  them,  and  two 
days  later  turned  his  face  to  the  South.  Twenty -four  hours 
afterwards  he  was  stepping  up  the  gangway  and  being 
welcomed  by  as  gay  a  group  as  ever  fluttered  handkerchiefs 
to  cheer  a  friend.  Among  them  the  first  object  that  had 
caught  his  eye  as  he  rowed  out  was  the  straight,  lithe  figure 
of  Mrs.  Lancaster.  A  man  is  always  ready  to  think  Prov 
idence  interferes  specially  in  his  case,  provided  the  in 
terpretation  accords  with  his  own  views,  and  this  looked 
to  Keith  very  much  as  if  it  were  Providence.  For  one 
thing,  it  saved  him  the  trouble  of  thinking  further  of  a 
matter  which,  the  more  he  thought  of  it,  the  more  he  was 
perplexed.  She  came  forward  with  the  others,  and  wel 
comed  him  with  her  old  frank,  cordial  grasp  of  the  hand 
and  gracious  air.  When  he  was  comfortably  settled,  he 
felt  a  distinct  self-content  that  he  had  decided  to  come. 

A  yacht-cruise  is  dependent  on  three  things  :  the  yacht 
itself,  the  company  on  board,  and  the  weather.  Keith  had 
no  cause  to  complain  of  any  of  these. 

The  "Virginia  Dare"  was  a  beautiful  boat,  and  the 

527 


GOKDON  KEITH 

weather  was  perfect— just  the  weather  for  a  cruise  in 
Southern  waters.  The  company  were  all  friends  of  Keith  ; 
and  Keith  found  himself  sailing  in  Summer  seas,  with  Sum 
mer  airs  breathing  about  him.  Keith  was  at  his  best.  He 
was  richly  tanned  by  exposure,  and  as  hard  as  a  nail  from 
work  in  the  open  air.  Command  of  men  had  given  him 
that  calm  assurance  which  is  the  mark  of  the  captain. 
Ambition— ambition  to  be,  not  merely  to  possess— was  once 
more  calling  to  him  with  her  inspiring  voice,  and  as  he 
hearkened  his  face  grew  more  and  more  distinguished. 
Providence,  indeed,  or  Grinnell  Rhodes  was  working  his 
way,  and  it  seemed  to  him— he  admitted  it  with  a  pang  of 
contempt  for  himself  at  the  admission— that  Mrs.  Lancaster 
was  at  least  acquiescent  in  their  hands.  Morning  after 
morning  they  sat  together  in  the  shadow  of  the  sail,  and 
evening  after  evening  together  watched  the  moon  with  an 
ever-rounder  golden  circle  steal  up  the  cloudless  sky. 
Keith  was  pleased  to  find  how  much  interested  he  was 
becoming.  Each  day  he  admired  her  more  and  more  ;  and 
each  day  he  found  her  sweeter  than  she  had  been  before. 
Once  or  twice  she  spoke  to  him  of  Lois  Huntington,  but 
each  time  she  mentioned  her,  Keith  turned  the  subject. 
She  said  that  they  had  expected  to  have  her  join  them ; 
but  she  could  not  leave  her  aunt. 

"I  hear  she  is  engaged,"  said  Keith. 

"Yes,  I  heard  that.  I  do  not  believe  it.  Whom  did 
you  hear  it  from  ?  " 

"Mrs.  Nailor." 

"So  did  I." 


528 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 
THE   OLD    IDEAL 

ONE  evening  they  sat  on  deck.  Alice  Lancaster  had 
never  appeared  so  sweet.  It  happened  that  Mrs. 
Rhodes  had  a  headache  and  was  down  below,  and  Rhodes 
declared  that  he  had  some  writing  to  do.  So  Mrs.  Lancas 
ter  and  Keith  had  the  deck  to  themselves. 

They  had  been  sailing  for  weeks  among  emerald  isles 
and  through  waters  as  blue  as  heaven.  Even  the  "still- 
vex'd  Bermoothes  "  had  lent  them  their  gentlest  airs. 

They  had  left  the  Indies  and  were  now  approaching  the 
American  shore.  Their  cruise  was  almost  at  an  end,  and 
possibly  a  little  sadness  had  crept  over  them  both.  As  she 
had  learned  more  and  more  of  his  life  and  more  and  more  of 
his  character,  she  had  found  herself  ready  to  give  up  every 
thing  for  him  if  he  only  gave  her  what  she  craved.  But 
one  thing  had  made  itself  plain  to  Alice  :  Keith  was  not  in 
love  with  her  as  she  knew  he  could  be  in  love.  If  he  were 
in  love,  it  was  with  an  ideal.  And  her  woman's  intuition 
told  her  that  she  was  not  that  ideal. 

This  evening  she  was  unusually  pensive.  She  had  never 
looked  lovelier  or  been  more  gracious  and  charming,  and  as 
Keith  thought  of  the  past  and  of  the  future,— the  long  past 
in  which  they  had  been  friends,  the  long  future  in  which  he 
would  live  alone,— his  thought  took  the  form  of  resolve. 
Why  should  they  not  always  be  together?  She  knew  that 
he  liked  her,  so  he  had  not  much  to  do  to  go  further.  The 
moon  was  just  above  the  horizon,  making  a  broad  golden 

529 


GORDON   KEITH 

pathway  to  them.  The  soft  lapping  of  the  waves  against 
the  boat  seemed  to  be  a  lullaby  suited  to  the  peacefulness 
of  the  scene  ;  and  the  lovely  form  before  him,  clad  in  soft  rai 
ment  that  set  it  off,  the  fair  face  and  gentle  voice,  appeared 
to  fill  everything  with  graciousness.  Keith  had  more  than 
once,  in  the  past  few  weeks,  considered  how  he  would  bring 
the  subject  up,  and  what  he  would  say  if  he  ever  addressed 
her.  He  did  not,  however,  go  about  it  in  the  way  he  had 
planned.  It  seemed  to  him  to  come  up  spontaneously. 
Under  the  spell  of  the  Summer  night  they  had  drifted 
into  talking  of  old  times,  and  they  both  softened  as  their 
memory  went  back  to  their  youth  and  their  friendship 
that  had  begun  among  the  Southern  woods  and  had  lasted 
so  many  years. 

She  had  spoken  of  the  influence  his  opinions  had  had 
with  her. 

"Do  you  know,"  he  said  presently,  "I  think  you  have 
exerted  more  influence  on  my  life  than  any  one  else  I  ever 
knew  after  I  grew  up  ?  " 

She  smiled,  and  her  face  was  softer  than  usual. 

"I  should  be  very  glad  to  think  that,  for  I  think  there 
are  few  men  who  set  out  in  life  with  such  ideals  as  you  had 
and  afterwards  realize  them." 

Keith  thought  of  his  father  and  of  how  steadily  that  old 
man  had  held  to  his  ideals  through  everything.  "I  have 
not  realized  them,"  he  said  firmly.  "I  fear  I  have  lost  most 
of  them.  I  set  out  in  life  with  high  ideals,  which  I  got  from 
my  father  ;  but,  somehow,  I  seem  to  have  changed  them." 

She  shook  her  head,  with  a  pleasant  light  in  her  eyes. 

"I  do  not  think  you  have.  Do  you  remember  what  you 
said  to  me  once  about  your  ideal  I " 

He  turned  and  faced  her.  There  was  an  expression  of 
such  softness  and  such  sweetness  in  her  face  that  a  kind  of 
anticipatory  happiness  fell  on  him. 

"Yes  ;  and  I  have  always  been  in  love  with  that  ideal," 
he  said  gravely. 

She  said  gently  :  "Yes,  I  knew  it." 

530 


THE   OLD   IDEAL 

"Did  you?7'  asked  Keith,  in  some  surprise.  "I  scarcely 
knew  it  myself,  though  I  believe  I  have  been  for  some  time." 

"Yes?  "  she  said.     "I  knew  that  too." 

Keith  bent  over  her  and  took  both  her  hands  in  his.  "I 
love  and  want  love  in  return— more  than  I  can  ever  tell 
you." 

A  change  came  over  her  face,  and  she  drew  in  her  breath 
suddenly,  glanced  at  him  for  a  second,  and  then  looked 
away,  her  eyes  resting  at  last  on  the  distance  where  a 
ship  lay,  her  sails  hanging  idly  in  the  dim  haze.  It  might 
have  been  a  dream-ship.  At  Keith's  words  a  picture  came 
to  her  out  of  the  past.  A  young  man  was  seated  on  the 
ground,  with  a  fresh-budding  bush  behind  him.  Spring  was 
all  about  them.  He  was  young  and  slender  and  sun- 
browned,  with  deep-burning  eyes  and  close-drawn  mouth, 
with  the  future  before  him  ;  whatever  befell,  with  the  hope 
and  the  courage  to  conquer.  He  had  conquered,  as  he  then 
said  he  would  to  the  young  girl  seated  beside  him. 

"When  I  love,"  he  was  saying,  "she  must  fill  full  the 
measure  of  my  dreams.  She  must  uplift  me.  She  must 
have  beauty  and  sweetness ;  she  must  choose  the  truth  as 
that  bird  chooses  the  flowers.  And  to  such  an  one  I  will 
give  worship  without  end." 

Years  after,  she  had  come  across  the  phrase  again  in  a 
poem.  And  at  the  words  the  same  picture  had  come  to 
her,  and  a  sudden  hunger  for  love,  for  such  love, — the  love 
she  had  missed  in  life,— had  seized  her.  But  it  was  then 
too  late.  She  had  taken  in  its  place  respect  and  compan 
ionship,  a  great  establishment  and  social  prominence. 

For  a  moment  her  mother,  sitting  calm  and  calculating 
in  the  little  room  at  Eidgely,  foretelling  her  future  and 
teaching,  with  commercial  exactness,  the  advantages  of 
such  a  union,  flashed  before  her ;  and  then  once  more  for  a 
moment  came  the  heart-hunger  for  what  she  had  missed. 

Why  should  she  not  take  the  gift  thus  held  out  to  her? 
She  liked  him  and  he  liked  her.  She  trusted  him.  It 
was  the  best  chance  of  happiness  she  would  ever  have. 

531 


GORDON   KEITH 

Besides,  she  could  help  him.  He  had  powers,  and  she  could 
give  him  the  opportunity  to  develop  them.  Love  would 
come.  Who  could  tell!  Perhaps,  the  other  happiness 
might  yet  be  hers.  Why  should  she  throw  it  away  ? 

Would  not  life  bring  the  old  dream  yet  ?  Could  it  bring 
it  ?  Here  was  this  man  whom  she  had  known  all  her  life, 
who  filled  almost  the  measure  of  her  old  dream,  at  her  feet 
again.  But  was  this  love?  Was  this  the  " worship  with 
out  end  "  ?  As  her  heart  asked  the  question,  and  she  lifted 
her  eyes  to  his  face,  the  answer  came  with  it :  No.  He 
was  too  cool,  too  calm.  This  was  but  friendship  and 
respect,  that  same  "safe  foundation"  she  had  tried.  This 
might  do  for  some,  but  not  for  him.  She  had  seen  him,  and 
she  knew  what  he  could  feel.  She  had  caught  a  glimpse  of 
him  that  evening  when  Ferdy  Wickersham  was  so  attentive 
to  the  little  Huntington  girl.  She  had  seen  him  that  night 
in  the  theatre  when  the  fire  occurred.  He  was  in  love ; 
but  it  was  with  Lois  Huntington,  and  happiness  might 
yet  be  his. 

The  next  moment  Alice's  better  nature  reasserted  itself. 
The  picture  of  the  young  girl  sitting  with  her  serious  face 
and  her  trustful  eyes  came  back  to  her.  Lois,  moved  by 
her  sympathy  and  friendship,  had  given  her  a  glimpse  of 
her  true  heart,  which  she  knew  she  would  have  died  before 
she  would  have  shown  another.  She  had  confided  in  her 
absolutely.  She  heard  the  tones  of  her  voice  : 

"  Why,  Mrs.  Lancaster,  I  dream  of  him.  He  seems  to  me 
so  real,  so  true.  For  such  a  man  I  could— I  could  worship 
him ! "  Then  came  the  sudden  lifting  of  the  veil ;  the 
straight,  confiding,  appealing  glance,  the  opening  of  the 
soul,  and  the  rush  to  her  knees  as  she  appealed  for  him. 

It  all  passed  through  Mrs.  Lancaster's  mind  as  she  looked 
far  away  over  the  slumbering  sea,  while  Keith  waited  for  her 
answer. 

When  she  glanced  up  at  Keith  he  was  leaning  over  the 
rail,  looking  far  away,  his  face  calm  and  serious.  What 
was  he  thinking  of?  Certainly  not  of  her. 

532 


THE   OLD   IDEAL 

"No,  you  are  not— not  in  love  with  me,"  she  said  firmly. 

Keith  started,  and  looked  down  on  her  with  a  changed 
expression. 

She  raised  her  hand  with  a  gesture  of  protest,  rose  and 
stood  beside  him,  facing  him  frankly. 

"You  are  in  love,  but  not  with  me." 

Keith  took  her  hand.  She  did  not  take  it  from  him ; 
indeed,  she  caught  his  hand  with  a  firm  clasp. 

"Oh,  no  ;  you  are  not,"  she  smiled.  "I  have  had  men  in 
love  with  me—" 

"You  have  had  one,  I  know—"  he  began. 

"Yes,  once,  a  long  time  ago— and  I  know  the  difference. 
I  told  you  once  that  I  was  not  what  you  thought  me." 

"And  I  told  you—"  began  Keith ;  but  she  did  not  pause. 

"I  am  still  less  so  now.  I  am  not  in  the  least  what  you 
think  me— or  you  are  not  what  I  think  you." 

"You  are  just  what  I  think  you,"  began  Keith.  "You 
are  the  most  charming  woman  in  the  world— you  are  my—" 
He  hesitated  as  she  looked  straight  into  his  eyes  and  shook 
her  head. 

"What?  No,  I  am  not.  I  am  a  worldly,  world- worn 
woman.  Oh,  yes,  I  am,"  as  dissent  spoke  in  his  face.  "I 
know  the  world  and  am  a  part  of  it  and  depend  upon  it. 
Yes,  I  am.  I  am  not  so  far  gone  that  I  cannot  recognize 
and  admire  what  is  better,  higher,  and  nobler  than  the 
world  of  which  I  speak  ;  but  I  am  bound  to  the  wheel—  Is 
not  that  the  illustration  you  wrote  me  once?  I  thought 
then  it  was  absurd.  I  know  now  how  true  it  is." 

"I  do  not  think  you  are,"  declared  Keith.  "If  you  were, 
I  would  claim  the  right  to  release  you— to  save  you  for— 
yourself  and—" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"No,  no.  I  have  become  accustomed  to  my  Sybarite's 
couch  of  which  you  used  to  tell  me.  Would  you  be  willing 
to  give  up  all  you  have  striven  for  and  won— your  life— 
the  honors  you  have  won  and  hope  to  win?  " 

"They  are  nothing— those  I  have  won !  Those  I  hope 

533 


GORDON    KEITH 

to  win,  I  would  win  for  us  both.     You  should  help  me. 
They  would  be  for  you,  Alice."   His  eyes  were  deep  in  hers. 

She  fetched  a  long  sigh. 

"No,  no ;  once,  perhaps,  I  might  have— but  now  it  is  too 
late.  I  chose  my  path  and  must  follow  it.  You  would  not 
like  to  give  up  all  you— hope  for— and  become  like— some 
we  know?" 

"God  forbid!" 

"And  I  say,  ( Amen.7  And  if  you  would,  I  would  not  be 
willing  to  have  you  do  it.  You  are  too  much  to  me— I 
honor  you  too  much,"  she  corrected  quickly,  as  she  caught 
the  expression  in  his  face.  "I  could  not  let  you  sink  into 
a— society  man— like— some  of  those  I  sit  next  to  and 
dance  with  and  drive  with  and— enjoy  and  despise.  Do  I 
not  know  that  if  you  loved  me  you  would  have  convinced 
me  of  it  in  a  moment?  You  have  not  convinced  me. 
You  are  in  love,— as  you  said  just  now,— but  not  with  me. 
You  are  in  love  with  Lois  Huntington." 

Keith  almost  staggered.  It  was  so  direct  and  so  exactly 
what  his  thought  had  been  just  now.  But  he  said  : 

"Oh,  nonsense !  Lois  Huntington  considers  me  old 
enough  to  be  her  grandfather.  Why,  she— she  is  engaged 
to  or  in  love  with  Dr.  Locaman." 

"She  is  not,"  said  Mrs.  Lancaster,  firmly,  "and  she  never 
will  be.  If  you  go  about  it  right  she  will  marry  you."  She 
added  calmly  :  "I  hope  she  will,  with  all  my  heart." 

"Marry  me  !     Lois  Huntington  !     Why—" 

"She  considers  me  her  grandmother,  perhaps ;  but  not 
you  her  grandfather.  She  thinks  you  are  much  too  young 
for  me.  She  thinks  you  are  the  most  wonderful  and  the 
best  and  most  charming  man  in  the  world." 

"Oh,  nonsense !" 

"I  do  not  know  where  she  got  such  an  idea— unless  you 
told  her  so  yourself,"  she  said,  with  a  smile. 

"I  would  like  her  to  think  it,"  said  Keith,  smiling  ;  "but 
I  have  studiously  avoided  divulging  myself  in  my  real  and 
fatal  character." 

534 


THE   OLD   IDEAL 

"Then  she  must  have  got  it  from  the  only  other  person 
who  knows  you  in  your  true  character.'7 

"And  that  is-!" 

She  looked  into  his  eyes  with  so  amused  and  so  friendly 
a  light  in  her  own  that  Keith  lifted  her  hand  to  his  lips. 

"I  do  not  deserve  such  friendship." 

"Yes,  you  do  ;  you  taught  it  to  me." 

He  sat  back  in  his  chair,  trying  to  think.  But  all  he 
could  think  of  was  how  immeasurably  he  was  below  both 
these  women. 

"Will  you  forgive  me?"  he  said  suddenly,  almost  miser 
ably.  He  meant  to  say  more,  but  she  rose,  and  at  the 
moment  he  heard  a  step  behind  him.  He  thought  her 
hand  touched  his  head  for  a  second,  and  that  he  heard 
her  answer,  "Yes";  but  he  was  not  sure,  for  just  then 
Mrs.  Khodes  spoke  to  them,  and  they  all  three  had  to 
pretend  that  they  thought  nothing  unusual  had  been 
going  on. 

They  received  their  mail  next  day,  and  were  all  busy 
reading  letters,  when  Mrs.  Rhodes  gave  an  exclamation  of 
surprise. 

"Oh,  just  hear  this  !  Little  Miss  Huntington's  old  aunt 
is  dead." 

There  was  an  exclamation  from  every  one. 

"Yes,"  she  went  on  reading,  with  a  faint  little  conven 
tional  tone  of  sympathy  in  her  voice ;  "she  died  ten  days 
ago— very  suddenly,  of  heart-disease." 

"Oh,  poor  little  Lois  !  I  am  so  sorry  for  her  ! "  It  was 
Alice  Lancaster's  voice. 

But  Keith  did  not  hear  any  more.  His  heart  was  aching, 
and  he  was  back  among  the  shrubbery  of  The  Lawns.  All 
that  he  knew  was  that  Rhodes  and  Mrs.  Rhodes  were 
expressing  sympathy,  and  that  Mrs.  Lancaster,  who  had 
not  said  a  word  after  the  first  exclamation,  excused  herself 
and  left  the  saloon.  Keith  made  up  his  mind  promptly. 
He  went  up  on  deck.  Mrs.  Lancaster  was  sitting  alone  far 
aft  in  the  shadow.  Her  back  was  toward  him,  and  her 

535 


GOEDON  KEITH 

hand  was  to  her  eyes.     He  went  up  to  her.     She  did  not 
look  up  ;  but  Keith  felt  that  she  knew  it  was  he. 

"You  must  go  to  her,"  she  said. 

"Yes,"  said  Keith.     "I  shall.     I  wish  you  would  come." 

"Oh,  I  wish  I  could  !     Poor  little  thing  ! "  she  sighed. 

Two  days  after  that  Keith  walked  into  the  hotel  at 
Brookford.  The  clerk  recognized  him  as  he  appeared, 
and  greeted  him  cordially.  Something  in  Keith's  look  or 
manner,  perhaps,  recalled  his  former  association  with  the 
family  at  The  Lawns,  for,  as  Keith  signed  his  name,  he  said  : 

"Sad  thing,  that,  up  on  the  hill." 

"What?"  said  Keith,  absently. 

"The  old  lady's  death  and  the  breaking  up  of  the  old 
place,"  he  said. 

"Oh !— yes,  it  is,"  said  Keith ;  and  then,  thinking  that 
he  could  learn  if  Miss  Huntington  were  there  without 
appearing  to  do  so,  except  casually,  he  said : 

"Who  is  there  now?" 

"There  is  not  any  one  there  at  all,  I  believe." 

Keith  ordered  a  room,  and  a  half-hour  later  went  out. 

Instead  of  taking  a  carriage,  he  walked.  There  had  been 
a  change  in  the  weather.  The  snow  covered  everything, 
and  the  grounds  looked  wintry  and  deserted.  The  gate 
was  unlocked,  but  had  not  been  opened  lately,  and  Keith 
had  hard  work  to  open  it  wide  enough  to  let  himself 
through.  He  tramped  along  through  the  snow,  and  turn 
ing  the  curve  in  the  road,  was  in  front  of  the  house.  It  was 
shut  up.  Every  shutter  was  closed,  as  well  as  the  door,  and  a 
sudden  chill  struck  him.  Still  he  went  on  ;  climbed  the 
wide,  unswept  steps,  crossed  the  portico,  and  rang  the  bell, 
and  finally  knocked.  The  sound  made  him  start.  How 
lonesome  it  seemed  !  He  knocked  again,  but  no  one  came. 
Only  the  snowbirds  on  the  portico  stopped  and  looked  at 
him  curiously.  Finally,  he  thought  he  heard  some  one  in 
the  snow.  He  turned  as  a  man  came  around  the  house.  It 
was  the  old  coachman  and  factotum.  He  seemed  glad  enough 
to  see  Keith,  and  Keith  was,  at  least,  glad  to  see  him. 

536 


THE   OLD   IDEAL 

"It's  a  bad  business,  it  is,  Mr.  Kathe,"  he  said  sadly. 

"Yes,  it  is,  John.     Where  is  Miss  Huntington?" 

"Gone,  sir,"  said  John,  with  surprise  in  his  voice  that 
Keith  should  not  know. 

"Gone  where?" 

"An'  that  no  one  knows,"  said  John. 

"What !     What  do  you  mean  !  " 

"Just  that,  sir,"  said  the  old  fellow.  "She  went  away 
two  days  after  the  funeral,  an'  not  a  worrd  of  her  since." 

"But  she's  at  some  relative's?"  said  Keith,  seeking 
information  at  the  same  time  he  gave  it. 

"No,  sir  5  not  a  relative  in  the  world  she  has,  except  Mr. 
Wentworth  in  New  York,  and  she  has  not  been  there." 

Keith  learned,  in  the  conversation  which  followed,  that 
Miss  Abigail  had  died  very  suddenly,  and  that  two  days 
after  the  funeral  Miss  Lois  had  had  the  house  shut  up,  and 
taking  only  a  small  trunk,  had  left  by  train  for  New  York. 
They  had  expected  to  hear  from  her,  though  she  had  said 
they  would  not  do  so  for  some  time ;  and  when  no  letter 
had  come  they  had  sent  to  New  York,  but  had  failed  to 
find  her.  This  all  seemed  natural  enough.  Lois  was  abun 
dantly  able  to  take  care  of  herself,  and,  no  doubt,  desired 
for  the  present  to  be  in  some  place  of  retirement.  Keith 
decided,  therefore,  that  he  would  simply  go  to  the  city 
and  ascertain  where  she  was.  He  thought  of  going  to  see 
Dr.  Locaman,  but  something  restrained  him.  The  snow  was 
deep,  and  he  was  anxious  to  find  Lois  ;  so  he  went  straight 
down  to  the  city  that  evening.  The  next  day  he  discovered 
that  it  was  not  quite  so  easy  to  find  one  who  wished  to  be 
lost.  Norman  knew  nothing  of  her. 

Norman  and  his  wife  were  now  living  with  old  Mrs. 
Wentworth,  and  they  had  all  invited  her  to  come  to  them  ; 
but  she  had  declined.  Keith  was  much  disturbed. 

Lois,  however,  was  nearer  than  Keith  dreamed. 

Her  aunt's  death  had  stricken  Lois  deeply.  She  could 
not  bear  to  go  to  New  York.  It  stood  to  her  only  for 
hardness  and  isolation. 

537 


GORDON   KEITH 

Just  then  a  letter  came  from  Dr.  Balsam.  She  must 
come  to  him,  he  said.  He  was  sick,  or  he  would  come  for 
her.  An  impulse  seized  her  to  go  to  him.  She  would 
go  back  to  the  scenes  of  her  childhood :  the  memories 
of  her  father  drew  her  j  the  memory  also  of  her  aunt  in 
some  way  urged  her.  Dr.  Balsam  appeared  just  then 
nearer  to  her  than  any  one  else.  She  could  help  him.  It 
seemed  a  haven  of  refuge  to  her. 

Twenty-four  hours  later  the  old  Doctor  was  sitting  in  his 
room.  He  looked  worn  and  old  and  dispirited.  The  death 
of  an  old  friend  had  left  a  void  in  his  life. 

There  was  a  light  step  outside  and  a  rap  at  the  door. 

"It's  the  servant,"  thought  the  Doctor,  and  called  some 
what  gruffly,  "Come  in." 

When  the  door  opened  it  was  not  the  servant.  For  a 
moment  the  old  man  scarcely  took  in  who  it  was.  She 
seemed  to  be  almost  a  vision.  He  had  never  thought  of 
Lois  in  black.  She  was  so  like  a  girl  he  had  known  long, 
long  ago. 

Then  she  ran  forward,  and  as  the  old  man  rose  to  his  feet 
she  threw  her  arms  about  his  neck,  and  the  world  suddenly 
changed  for  him— changed  as  much  as  if  it  had  been  new- 
created. 

From  New  York  Keith  went  down  to  the  old  plantation 
to  see  his  father:  The  old  gentleman  was  renewing  his 
youth  among  his  books.  He  was  much  interested  in  Keith's 
account  of  his  yachting-trip.  While  there  Keith  got  word 
of  important  business  which  required  his  presence  in  New 
Leeds  immediately.  Ferdy  Wickersham  had  returned, 
and  had  brought  suit  against  his  company,  claiming  title  to 
all  the  lands  they  had  bought  from  Adam  Kawson. 

On  his  arrival  at  New  Leeds,  Keith  learned  that  Wicker- 
sham  had  been  there  just  long  enough  to  institute  his  suit, 
the  papers  in  which  had  been  already  prepared  before  he 
came.  There  was  much  excitement  in  the  place.  Wicker- 
sham  had  boasted  that  he  had  made  a  great  deal  of  money 
in  South  America. 

538 


THE   OLD   IDEAL 

"He  claims  now,"  said  Keith's  informant,  Captain  Tur- 
ley,  "that  he  owns  all  of  Squire  Rawson's  lands.  He  says 
you  knew  it  was  all  his  when  you  sold  it  to  them  English 
men,  and  that  Mr.  Khodes,  the  president  of  the  company, 
knew  it  was  his,  and  he  has  been  defrauded." 

"Well,  we  will  see  about  that,"  said  Keith,  grimly. 

"That's  what  old  Squire  Rawson  said.  The  old  man 
came  up  as  soon  as  he  heard  he  was  here  ;  but  Wickersham 
didn't  stay  but  one  night.  He  had  lighted  out." 

"What  did  the  squire  come  for?  "  inquired  Keith,  moved 
by  his  old  friend's  expression. 

"He  said  he  came  to  kill  him.  And  he'd  have  done  it. 
If  Wickersham's  got  any  friends  they'd  better  keep  him  out 
of  his  way."  His  face  testified  his  earnestness. 

Keith  had  a  curious  feeling.  Wickersham's  return 
meant  that  he  was  desperate.  In  some  way,  too,  Keith  felt 
that  Lois  Huntington  was  concerned  in  his  movements.  He 
was  glad  to  think  that  she  was  abroad. 

But  Lois  was  being  drawn  again  into  his  life  in  a  way 
that  he  little  knew. 

In  the  seclusion  and  quietude  of  Ridgely  at  that  season, 
Lois  soon  felt  as  if  she  had  reached,  at  last,  a  safe  harbor. 
The  care  of  the  old  Doctor  gave  her  employment,  and  her 
mind,  after  a  while,  began  to  recover  its  healthy  tone.  She 
knew  that  the  happiness  of  which  she  had  once  dreamed 
would  never  be  hers  ;  but  she  was  sustained  by  the  reflection 
that  she  had  tried  to  do  her  duty  :  she  had  sacrificed  herself 
for  others.  She  spent  her  time  trying  to  help  those  about 
her.  She  had  made  friends  with  Squire  Rawson,  and  the  old 
man  found  much  comfort  in  talking  to  her  of  Phrony. 

Sometimes,  in  the  afternoon,  when  she  was  lonely,  she 
climbed  the  hill  and  looked  after  the  little  plot  in  which 
lay  the  grave  of  her  father.  She  remembered  her  mother 
but  vaguely :  as  a  beautiful  vision,  blurred  by  the  years ; 
but  her  father  was  clear  in  her  memory.  His  smile,  his 
cheeriness,  his  devotion  to  her  remained  with  her.  And  the 
memory  of  him  who  had  been  her  friend  in  her  childhood 

539 


GOKDON   KEITH 

came  to  her  sometimes,  saddening  her,  till  she  would  arouse 
herself  and  by  an  effort  banish  him  from  her  thoughts. 

Often  when  she  went  up  to  the  cemetery  she  would  see 
others  there  :  women  in  black,  with  a  fresher  sorrow  than 
hers ;  and  sometimes  the  squire,  who  was  beginning  now 
to  grow  feeble  and  shaky  with  age,  would  be  sitting  on  a 
bench  among  the  shrubbery  beside  a  grave  on  which  he  had 
placed  flowers.  The  grave  was  Phrony's.  Once  he  spoke 
to  her  of  Wickersham.  He  had  brought  a  suit  against  the 
old  man,  claiming  that  he  had  a  title  to  all  of  the  latter's 
property.  The  old  fellow  was  greatly  stirred  up  by  it.  He 
denounced  him  furiously. 

"He  has  robbed  me  of  her,"  he  said.  "Let  him  beware. 
If  he  ever  comes  across  my  path  I  shall  kill  him." 

So  the  Winter  passed,  and  Spring  was  beginning  to 
come.  Its  harbingers,  in  their  livery  of  red  and  green, 
were  already  showing  on  the  hillsides.  The  redbud  was 
burning  on  the  Southern  slopes ;  the  turf  was  springing, 
fresh  and  green ;  dandelions  were  dappling  the  grass  like 
golden  coins  sown  by  a  prodigal ;  violets  were  beginning  to 
peep  from  the  shelter  of  leaves  caught  along  the  fence-rows  ; 
and  some  favored  peach-trees  were  blushing  into  pink. 

For  some  reason  the  season  made  Lois  sad.  Was  it  that  it 
was  Nature's  season  for  mating  j  the  season  for  Youth  to 
burst  its  restraining  bonds  and  blossom  into  love?  She 
tried  to  fight  the  feeling  j  but  it  clung  to  her.  Dr.  Balsam, 
watching  her  with  quickened  eyes,  grew  graver,  and  pre 
scribed  a  tonic.  Once  he  had  spoken  to  her  of  Keith,  and 
she  had  told  him  that  he  was  to  marry  Mrs.  Lancaster. 
But  the  old  man  had  made  a  discovery.  And  he  never 
spoke  to  her  of  him  again. 

Lois,  to  her  surprise  and  indignation,  received  one 
morning  a  letter  from  Wickersham  asking  her  to  make  an 
appointment  with  him  on  a  matter  of  mutual  interest. 
He  wished,  he  said,  to  make  friends  with  old  Mr.  Kaw- 
son  and  she  could  help  him.  He  mentioned  Keith 
and  casually  spoke  of  his  engagement.  She  took  no 

540 


THE   OLD   IDEAL 

notice  of  this  letter ;  but  one  afternoon  she  was  lonelier 
than  usual,  and  she  went  up  the  hill  to  her  father's  grave. 
Adam  Kawson's  horse  was  tied  to  the  fence,  and  across  the 
lots  she  saw  him  among  the  rose-bushes  at  Phrony's  grave. 
She  sat  down  and  gave  herself  up  to  reflection.  Gradually 
the  whole  of  her  life  in  New  York  passed  before  her :  its 
unhappiness ;  its  promise  of  joy  for  a  moment ;  and  then 
the  shutting  of  it  out,  as  if  the  windows  of  her  soul  had 
been  closed. 

She  heard  the  gate  click,  and  presently  heard  a  step  be 
hind  her.  As  it  approached  she  turned  and  faced  Ferdy 
Wickersham.  She  seemed  to  be  almost  in  a  dream.  He 
had  aged  somewhat,  and  his  dark  face  had  hardened. 
Otherwise  he  had  not  changed.  He  was  still  very  hand 
some.  She  felt  as  if  a  chill  blast  had  struck  her.  She 
caught  his  eye  on  her,  and  knew  that  he  had  recognized 
her.  As  he  came  up  the  path  toward  her,  she  rose  and 
moved  away ;  but  he  cut  across  to  intercept  her,  and  she 
heard  him  speak  her  name. 

She  took  no  notice,  but  walked  on. 

"Miss  Huntington."     He  stepped  in  front  of  her. 

Her  head  went  up,  and  she  looked  him  in  the  eyes  with 
a  scorn  in  hers  that  stung  him.  "Move,  if  you  please." 

His  face  flushed,  then  paled  again. 

"I  heard  you  were  here,  and  I  have  come  to  see  you,  to 
talk  with  you,"  he  began.  "I  wish  to  be  friends  with  you." 

She  waved  him  aside. 

"Let  me  pass,  if  you  please." 

"Not  until  you  have  heard  what  I  have  to  say.  You 
have  done  me  a  great  injustice  ;  but  I  put  that  by.  I  have 
been  robbed  by  persons  you  know,  persons  who  are  no 
friends  of  yours,  whom  I  understand  you  have  influence 
with,  and  you  can  help  to  right  matters.  It  will  be  worth 
your  while  to  do  it." 

She  attempted  to  pass  around  him ;  but  he  stepped  before 
her. 

"You  might  as  well  listen  ;  for  I  have  come  here  to  talk 

541 


GOKDON   KEITH 

to  you,  and  I  mean  to  do  it.  I  can  show  you  how  impor 
tant  it  is  for  you  to  aid  me— to  advise  your  friends  to  settle. 
Now,  will  you  listen  ?  " 

"No."     She  looked  him  straight  in  the  eyes. 

"Oh,  I  guess  you  will,"  he  sneered.  "It  concerns  your 
friend,  Mr.  Keith,  whom  you  thought  so  much  of.  Your 
friend  Keith  has  placed  himself  in  a  very  equivocal  posi 
tion.  I  will  have  him  behind  bars  before  I  am  done.  Wait 
until  I  have  shown  that  when  he  got  all  that  money  from 
the  English  people  he  knew  that  that  land  was  mine,  and 
that  he  had  run  the  lines  falsely  on  which  he  got  the  money." 

"Let  me  pass,"  said  Lois.  With  her  head  held  high  she 
started  again  to  walk  by  him  ;  but  he  seized  her  by  the  wrist. 

"This  is  not  Central  Park.     You  shall  hear  me." 

"Let  me  go,  Mr.  Wickersham,"  she  said  imperiously. 
But  he  held  her  firmly. 

At  that  moment  she  heard  an  oath  behind  her,  and  a 
voice  exclaimed : 

"It  is  you,  at  last !     And  still  troubling  women  ! " 

Wickersham's  countenance  suddenly  changed.  He  re 
leased  her  wrist  and  fell  back  a  step,  his  face  blanching. 
The  next  second,  as  she  turned  quickly,  old  Adam  Kaw- 
son's  bulky  figure  was  before  her.  He  was  hurrying  toward 
her  :  the  very  apotheosis  of  wrath.  His  face  was  purple  ; 
his  eyes  blazed  ;  his  massive  form  was  erect,  and  quiver 
ing  with  fury.  His  heavy  stick  was  gripped  in  his  left 
hand,  and  with  the  other  he  was  drawing  a  pistol  from  his 
pocket. 

"I  have  waited  for  you,  you  dog,  and  you  have  come  at 
last ! "  he  cried. 

Wickersham,  falling  back  before  his  advance,  was  trying, 
as  Lois  looked,  to  get  out  a  pistol.  His  face  was  as  white 
as  death.  Lois  had  no  time  for  thought.  It  was  simply 
instinct.  Old  Kawson's  pistol  was  already  levelled.  With 
a  cry  she  threw  herself  between  them  ;  but  it  was  too  late. 

She  was  only  conscious  of  a  roar  and  blinding  smoke  in 
her  eyes  and  of  something  like  a  hot  iron  at  her  side  j  then, 

542 


THE   OLD   IDEAL 

as  she  sank  down,  of  Squire  Rawson's  stepping  over  her. 
Her  sacrifice  was  in  vain,  for  the  old  man  was  not  to  be 
turned  from  his  revenge.  As  he  had  sworn,  so  he  per 
formed.  And  the  next  moment  Wickersham,  with  two 
bullets  in  his  body,  had  paid  to  him  his  long-piled-up  debt. 

When  Lois  came  to,  she  was  in  bed,  and  Dr.  Balsam  was 
leaning  over  her  with  a  white,  set  face. 

"I  am  all  right,"  she  said,  with  a  faint  smile.  "Was  he 
hurt?" 

"Don't  talk  now,"  said  the  Doctor,  quietly.  "Thank 
God,  you  are  not  hurt  much." 

Keith  was  sitting  in  his  office  in  New  Leeds  alone  that 
afternoon.  He  had  just  received  a  telegram  from  Dave 
Dennison  that  Wickersham  had  left  New  York.  Dennison 
had  learned  that  he  was  going  to  Ridgely  to  try  to  make  up 
with  old  Kawson.  Just  then  the  paper  from  Ridgely  was 
brought  in.  Keith's  eye  fell  on  the  head-lines  of  the  first 
column,  and  he  almost  fell  from  his  chair  as  he  read  the 
words: 

DOUBLE  TRAGEDY— FATAL  SHOOTING 

F.  C.  WICKERSII  AM  SHOOTS  MISS  LOIS  HUNTINGTON  AND 
IS  KILLED  BY  SQUIRE  RAWSON 


The  account  of  the  shooting  was  in  accordance  with  the 
heading,  and  was  followed  by  the  story  of  the  Wickersham- 
Rawson  trouble. 

Keith  snatched  out  his  watch,  and  the  next  second  was 
dashing  down  the  street  on  his  way  to  the  station.  A  train 
was  to  start  for  the  east  in  five  minutes.  He  caught  it  as 
it  ran  out  of  the  station,  and  swung  himself  up  to  the  rear 
platform. 

Curiously  enough,  in  his  confused  thoughts  of  Lois  Hunt- 
ington  and  what  she  had  meant  to  him  was  mingled  the 
constant  recollection  of  old  Tim  Gilsey  and  his  lumbering 
stage  running  through  the  pass. 

543 


GOKDON   KEITH 

It  was  late  in  the  evening  when  he  reached  Ridgely  ;  but 
he  hastened  at  once  to  Dr.  Balsam's  office.  The  moon  was 
shining,  and  it  brought  back  to  him  the  evenings  on  the 
verandah  at  Gates's  so  long  ago.  But  it  seemed  to  him  that 
it  was  Lois  Huntington  who  had  been  there  among  the  pil 
lows  ;  that  it  was  Lois  Huntington  who  had  always  been 
there  in  his  memory.  He  wondered  if  she  would  be  as  she 
was  then,  as  she  lay  dead.  And  once  or  twice  he  wondered 
if  he  could  be  losing  his  wits  j  then  he  gripped  himself  and 
cleared  his  mind. 

In  ten  minutes  he  was  in  Dr.  Balsam's  office.  The  Doc 
tor  greeted  him  with  more  coldness  than  he  had  ever 
shown  him.  Keith  felt  his  suspicion. 

"Where  is  Lois— Miss  Lois  Huntington?  Is  she—  ?  "  He 
could  not  frame  the  question. 

"She  is  doing  very  well." 

Keith's  heart  gave  a  bound  of  hope.  The  blood  surged 
back  and  forth  in  his  veins.  Life  seemed  to  revive  for  him. 

"Is  she  alive?    Will  she  live?"  he  faltered. 

"Yes.  Who  says  she  will  not?"  demanded  the  Doctor, 
testily. 

"The  paper— the  despatch." 

"No  thanks  to  you  that  she  does ! "  He  faced  Keith,  and 
suddenly  flamed  out :  "I  want  to  tell  you  that  I  think  you 
have  acted  like  a  damned  rascal ! " 

Keith's  jaw  dropped,  and  he  actually  staggered  with 
amazement.  "What !  What  do  you  mean  ?  I  do  not 
understand ! " 

"You  are  not  a  bit  better  than  that  dog  that  you  turned 
her  over  to,  who  got  his  deserts  yesterday." 

"But  I  do  not  understand  !  "  gasped  Keith,  white  and  hot. 

"Then  I  will  tell  you.  You  led  that  innocent  girl  to 
believe  that  you  were  in  love  with  her,  and  then  when  she 
was  fool  enough  to  believe  you  and  let  herself  become— 
interested,  you  left  her  to  run,  like  a  little  puppy,  after  a 
rich  woman." 

"Where  did  you  hear  this?"  asked  Keith,  still  amazed, 

544 


THE    OLD  IDEAL 

but  recovering  himself.  "What  have  you  heard?  Who 
told  you  ?  " 

"Not  from  her."     He  was  blazing  with  wrath. 

"No  j  but  from  whom  ?  " 

"Never  mind.  From  some  one  who  knew  the  facts.  It 
is  the  truth." 

"But  it  is  not  the  truth.  I  have  been  in  love  with  Lois 
Huntington  since  I  first  met  her." 

"Then  why  in  the  name  of  heaven  did  you  treat 
her  so  ?  " 

"How?  I  did  not  tell  her  so  because  I  heard  she  was  in 
love  with  some  one  else— and  engaged  to  him.  God  knows 
I  have  suffered  enough  over  it.  I  would  die  for  her."  His 
expression  left  no  room  for  doubt  as  to  his  sincerity. 

The  old  man's  face  gradually  relaxed,  and  presently  some 
thing  that  was  almost  a  smile  came  into  his  eyes.  He  held 
out  his  hand. 

"I  owe  you  an  apology.    You  are  a  d— d  fool ! " 

"Can  I  see  her?"  asked  Keith. 

"I  don't  know  that  you  can  see  anything.  But  I  could, 
if  I  were  in  your  place.  She  is  on  the  side  verandah  at  my 
hospital— where  Gates's  tavern  stood.  She  is  not  much  hurt, 
though  it  was  a  close  thing.  The  ball  struck  a  button  and 
glanced  around.  She  is  sitting  up.  I  shall  bring  her  home 
as  soon  as  she  can  be  moved." 

Keith  paused  and  reflected  a  moment,  then  held  out  his 
hand. 

"Doctor,  if  I  win  her  will  you  make  our  house  your 
home  ?  " 

The  old  man's  face  softened,  and  he  held  out  his  hand 
again. 

"You  will  have  to  come  and  see  me  sometimes." 

Five  minutes  later  Keith  turned  up  the  walk  that  led  to 
the  side  verandah  of  the  building  that  Dr.  Balsam  had  put 
up  for  his  sanatorium  on  the  site  of  Gates's  hotel.  The 
moon  was  slowly  sinking  toward  the  western  mountain- 
tops,  flooding  with  soft  light  the  valley  below,  and  touch- 

545 


GOKDON  KEITH 

ing  to  silver  the  fleecy  clouds  that,  shepherded  by  the 
gentle  wind,  wreathed  the  highest  peaks  beyond.  How 
well  Keith  remembered  it  all :  the  old  house  with  its  long 
verandah  j  the  moonlight  flooding  it ;  the  white  figure  re 
clining  there  ;  and  the  boy  that  talked  of  his  ideal  of  love 
liness  and  love.  She  was  there  now  ;  it  seemed  to  him  that 
she  had  been  there  always,  and  the  rest  was  merely  a  dream. 
He  walked  up  on  the  turf,  but  strode  rapidly.  He  could 
not  wait.  As  he  mounted  the  steps,  he  took  off  his  hat. 

"Good  evening."     He  spoke  as  if  she  must  expect  him. 

She  had  not  heard  him  before.  She  was  reclining  among 
pillows,  and  her  face  was  turned  toward  the  western  sky. 
Her  black  dress  gave  him  a  pang.  He  had  never  thought 
of  her  in  black,  except  as  a  little  girl.  And  such  she  almost 
seemed  to  him  now. 

She  turned  toward  him  and  gave  a  gasp. 

"Mr.  Keith!" 

"Lois— I  have  come—"  he  began,  and  stopped. 

She  held  out  her  hand  and  tried  to  sit  up.  Keith  took 
her  hand  softly,  as  if  it  were  a  rose,  and  closing  his  firmly 
over  it,  fell  on  one  knee  beside  her  chair. 

"Don't  try  to  sit  up,"  he  said  gently.  "I  went  to  Brook- 
ford  as  soon  as  I  heard  of  it—"  he  began,  and  then  placed 
his  other  hand  on  hers,  covering  it  with  his  firm  grasp. 

"I  thought  you  would,"  she  said  simply. 

Keith  lifted  her  hand  and  held  it  against  his  cheek.  He 
was  silent  a  moment.  What  should  he  say  to  her?  Not 
only  all  other  women,  but  all  the  rest  of  the  world,  had 
disappeared. 

"I  have  come,  and  I  shall  not  go  away  again  until  you  go 
with  me." 

For  answer  she  hid  her  face  and  began  to  cry  softly. 
Keith  knelt  with  her  hand  to  his  lips,  murmuring  his  love. 

"I  am  so  glad  you  have  come.  I  don't  know  what  to  do," 
she  said  presently. 

"You  do  not  have  to  know.  I  know.  It  is  decided.  I 
love  you— I  have  always  loved  you.  And  no  one  shall  ever 

546 


"Lois — I  have  come" — he  began. 


THE   OLD   IDEAL 

come  between  us.  You  are  mine— mine  only."  He  went 
on  pouring  out  his  soul  to  her. 

"My  old  Doctor—  ?  "  she  began  presently,  and  looked  up 
at  him  with  eyes  "like  stars  half-quenched  in  mists  of 
silver  dew." 

"He  agrees.     "We  will  make  him  live  with  us." 

"Your  father-?" 

"Him,  too.    You  shall  be  their  daughter." 

She  gave  him  her  hands. 

"Well,  on  that  condition." 

The  first  person  Keith  sought  to  tell  of  his  new  happi 
ness  was  his  father.  The  old  gentleman  was  sitting  on  the 
porch  at  Elphinstone  in  the  sun,  enjoying  the  physical  sen 
sation  of  warmth  that  means  so  much  to  extreme  youth 
and  extreme  age.  He  held  a  copy  of  Virgil  in  his  hand, 
but  he  was  not  reading  ;  he  was  repeating  passages  of  it  by 
heart.  They  related  to  the  quiet  life.  His  son  heard  him 
saying  softly : 

"  '  O  Fortunatos  nimium,  sua  si  bona  norint, 
Agricolas ! '  " 

His  mind  was  possibly  far  back  in  the  past. 

His  placid  face  lit  up  with  the  smile  that  always  shone 
there  when  his  son  appeared. 

"Well,  what's  the  news?"  he  asked.  "I  know  it  must 
be  good." 

"It  is,"  smiled  Keith.     "I  am  engaged  to  be  married." 

The  old  gentleman's  book  fell  to  the  floor. 

"You  don't  say  so  !  Ah,  that's  very  good  !  Very  good  ! 
I  am  glad  of  that;  every  young  man  ought  to  marry. 
There  is  no  happiness  like  it  in  this  world,  whatever  there 
may  be  in  the  next. 

'  Interea  dulces  pendent  circum  oscula  nati.' 

I  will  come  and  see  you,"  he  smiled. 

547 


GORDON  KEITH 

"Come  and  see  me!" 

"But  I  am  not  very  much  at  home  in  New  York/'  he 
pursued  rather  wistfully ;  "it  is  too  noisy  for  me.  I  am 
too  old-fashioned  for  it." 

"New  York  ?     But  I'm  not  going  to  live  in  New  York  ! " 

A  slight  shadow  swept  over  the  General's  face. 

"Well,  you  must  live  where  she  will  be  happiest/'  he  said 
thoughtfully.  "A  gentleman  owes  that  to  his  wife. — Do  you 
think  she  will  be  willing  to  live  elsewhere  ?  " 

"Who  do  you  think  it  is,  sir?" 

"Mrs.  Lancaster,  isn't  it?" 

"Why,  no  ;  it  is  Lois  Huntington.  I  am  engaged  to  her. 
She  has  promised  to  marry  me." 

"To  her  !— to  Lois  Huntington?— my  little  girl ! "  The 
old  gentleman  rose  to  his  feet,  his  face  alight  with  absolute 
joy.  "That  is  something  like  it !  Where  is  she?  When 
is  it  to  be?  I  will  come  and  live  with  you." 

"Of  course,  you  must.  It  is  on  that  condition  that  she 
agrees  to  marry  me,"  said  Keith,  smiling  with  new  happi 
ness  at  his  pleasure. 

"<In  her  tongue  is  the  law  of  kindness/  "  quoted  the  old 
gentleman.  "God  bless  you  both.  'Her  price  is  far  above 
rubies.' "  And  after  a  pause  he  added  gently :  "I  hope 
your  mother  knows  of  this.  I  think  she  must :  she  seems 
so  close  to  me  to-day." 


548 


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Book  Slip-50m-9,'70(N9877s8) 458—  A-31/5,6 


N?  811822 

PS2514 

Page,  T.N.  G6 

Gordon  Keith. 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


